


Alien Vs. Predator: Extinction

by Hell_On_Training_Wheels



Category: Alien vs Predator (2004), Aliens vs Predators Series - Various Authors, Mortal Kombat (Video Games), The Predator (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Earthrealm (Mortal Kombat), End of the World, Evil CEOs, Gen, Outworld (Mortal Kombat), Redemption, Some Character Deaths, Violence, Xenomorphs (Alien), Yautja, Yautja culture, exiled character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25730662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hell_On_Training_Wheels/pseuds/Hell_On_Training_Wheels
Summary: Earthrealm and Outworld will have to set aside old rivalries and form new alliances if they hope to save their worlds from complete annihilation. ((AvP/Mortal Kombat X Crossover))
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

** Chapter 1   
** **Cowboys and Aliens**

* * *

**Colorado**   
**1868**

There was always serene quietness at night, but it never did help coax his excited, sundry thoughts away and allow him to sleep. There was no way that they 7-year old could sleep, regardless of the tiring day they had endured; his mind wandered elsewhere and evaded the sandman's dust. The tranquil nothingness was only disturbed by a small snore from Abraham, who slept on the ground beside him and the distant lonely cry of a coyote. Aaron, the adopted son of the once reclusive stagecoach driver, turned his head towards his surrogate father. Laying on his back, with only a weathered wool blanket to sleep upon, the young blonde haired boy smiled as he Abraham muttered something incoherent from beneath the brim black hat that covered his eyes from the campfire light.

The lean muscled man dressed in black, smacked his lips as he laid in his unconscious stupor. Aaron also noticed the tips of his fingers curl softly around the handle of the Griswold revolver tucked inside the holster under his duster and above his black and speckled gray vest. It was the comforting norm for the grizzled dark haired man, like a babe that would clutch a toy sleeping in its crib. Aaron was comforted seeing his arm draped across his chest, ready to draw if something nefarious came looking for a snack, or if any sons-of-bitches wanted what they had. His faith in Abraham to protect him was unquestionable after the many times he demonstrated it when bandits and predators slithered into their camp.

They wouldn't have to worry about any of that after tomorrow. Aaron smiled as he looked up at the distant alabaster pinpricks in the endless obsidian curtain above their heads. The mountain pines tops swayed with the wind, trying to obscure his vision, but Aaron still beamed a smile as he counted the stars and thought about the gold in the creek waiting for both the man and boy to pluck. The camp didn't even have a name yet, but from what Abraham had told him, 'Tincup' was its unofficial moniker. Named after the random stroke of luck in honor of the man that fished his cup into the river for a drink to quench his thirst, and instead found it heightened when he saw fortune at the bottom of his cup.

 _"It won't be any different from Hays."_ Abraham's voice reminded him, and he knew he was right. Just like the dangerous cow town, they would have to watch their step and who they made acquaintances. Aaron still couldn't have been more excited. Just another few miles and they be richer than a new whore after her first day. Abraham grunted dubiously every time that Aaron voiced it, but he still had faith they would come across a bonanza. After all, they had traveled all this way.

The fire was beginning to die, but the boy wasn't up to the task of placing another long on the pile just yet. Air puffed from their two horses snouts nearby, and Aaron glanced their way as his buckskin, Bohannon, flapped his ears and flicked away mosquitoes. The black and white paint, who Abraham affectingly dubbed 'Lucifer' after breaking him in, shook his head and sent his ebony hair flapping gently like an ocean wave.

Eventually, his groin ached and with a tired groan, he rolled himself up and walked away from the fire, passed by the hatchet buried in the stump, and into the columns of pine trees to take care of his business. His shoes snapped twigs and tripped over tree roots as he blindly fumbled in the dark. With the glow of the fire at his back and the heat it provided departing him, Aaron urinated as he yawned and craned his chin up to look through the canopy of trees and searched for a constellation.

Something warm kissed his cheek, and he lifted his hand and tapped his fingers against his skin. At first, he thought it was a raindrop, but as he pulled his fingers away, he felt his eyebrows furrow as he rubbed the sticky, substance between his small digits. The 7-year old's blue eyes looked back up at the trees before he shrugged it off.

It was probably tree sap.

He buttoned his pants and rubbed the sap against his pant leg. It clung to his brown pants and with a small tug, it protested and remained glued to his pants before he gave it an even harder tug with a small, annoyed grunt.

Bohannon stomped his hooves and let out a squeal. Not even a second passed before Lucifer did the same and huffed. It carried on, their distress growing louder as their feet drummed nervously as Aaron observed anxiously from behind the pines. He could see the campfire through the fenced wall of trees and heard Abraham stir awake and rise to his feet.

The ex-coach driver noticed the empty blanket and began to look for Aaron as he unholstered his revolver. Aaron stepped forward, revealing himself and attempted to call out for him before Abraham spotted him.

His black shoulder length hair, raked with streaks of gray, flipped into his face when he heard the boy's footsteps in the dark. With wide, sea green eyes pointed in his direction, Abraham slapped his hand down, as if striking an invisible table-top— silently ordering him to get down and hide. There was terror under his apprehension, and Aaron's blood ran cold just looking at Abraham's face. It had a to be a bear. He knew Abraham was terrified of them after barely escaping one that claimed his horse instead of him long before he met the boy.

The boy hesitated and whimpered; he was glad the horses drowned it out because he felt pathetic for doing so. Crawling on his hands and knees, he wiggled his way quietly under the umbrella of pine needles and branches that hung low to the ground. Hiding behind a large pine, he huddled as much as he could to merge with the tree's trunk.

He held his breath as he pressed his ear against the trunk but still dared a peak around the base. Abraham barked at the horses to keep quiet, but they still bucked to get free of the line tied between two trunks. It didn't take long, and the rope finally snapped with their combined strength. Abraham cursed as they fled into the woods and deserted them to whatever spooked them.

Aaron had always found it ironic how much he had never gotten along with his horse since they were almost identical in personalities: stubborn, robust and keen to their surroundings. Unlike Lucifer, however, Abraham was not as yellow-bellied and stood his ground even though Aaron could tell he was nervous about whatever intruder the dark hid.

Ducking back behind the tree, the boy held his breath, trying to listen and only exhaled when his lungs filled with pain. Each time, he heard his own breath tremble with trepidation. He knew bears were dangerous— especially a starving bear. For a moment, he looked up at the branches of the pine tree he was hiding under. He could reach the nearest one and climb to the top if he wanted to, but he didn't dare want to make any noise that would bring a bear his way.

Aaron had his Philly Derringer in his pants pocket, but he was smart enough to know that the small caliber would do nothing but tickle a charging hungry bear. There was the hatchet, and Abe's Winchester but both of them may as well of been the same distance from San Francisco to Florida.

A frown weighed down the small boy's face.

 _Abraham suppose' ta take me to Florida…_ he recalled solemnly. _He promised he would show me where he saw that cottonmouth._

The sound of gunfire roused the boy violently from his melancholy thoughts.

"Get outta here!" Abraham screamed furiously at the trees. "Or I'll pump ya so full of lead that you'll have folks prospectin' your carcass for spare ammunition!"

Abraham let out another shot into the air from his revolver as he quietly tip-toed towards the Winchester on the ground next to his blanket. There was only silence, except for the crackling fire that played tricks on both of their minds. Every time a coal popped, they whirled towards the noise believing it was the snap of a stick.

Aaron could hear his surrogate father's heavy breathing, and it only continued to quicken the more the seconds ticked slowly away.

Then, there was nothing but the wail of banshees that pierced the night.

Aaron felt a tear run down his cheek as he heard the horses bawl in agony, he wasn't sure which one, or if it was both, but whatever was ripping the horse to shreds, screeched the most piercing cry he had ever heard.

Once in Hays, while he had been attending school, he remembered when the teacher had raked her nails against the blackboard to get their attention. This loud, horrendous screech made her nails seem like they had been made of butter that day. Aaron slapped his hands over his ears, trying to shield out the sound. Eventually, he heard the horses stop, but the screeching continued and he felt as if his ears were going to burst.

Then silence once more and as much as he hated to admit it, it was more dreadful than hearing the horses die. What followed, only picked up the speed of his heart and nailed him still to the cold ground of the mountain.

The boy heard hissing above them, far away from his tree but somewhere in Abraham's direction. Aaron thought it was a mountain lion at first, but there was something unnaturally horrendous about its hiss. The noise moved around, almost like it was leaping from tree to tree.

"What the hell are you…?" he heard Abraham fearfully ask under his breath. Aaron was thinking almost the same thing. He didn't know much about bears even though he had seen them from a distance from time to time, but he had a sinking gut feeling that it wasn't a bear. Now, he wished it had been.

The next thing he knew, Abraham was running to the tree he was hiding behind. His brim hat pushed aside the needles that parachuted around the boy, so only his head poked through.

"Aaron. Climb the tree," he ordered. It sent a shiver down the boy's spine when he saw how pale white Abraham was. All he could do was stammer out an objection, but Abraham cut him off.

"I'll draw it away, get in the tree and hide until I—

Aaron screamed in fear the same time Abraham cried out in surprise, dropped his Winchester and Griswold and instinctively grabbed the only thing within reach.

The young boy held on to Abraham's free hand as he hugged the tree with his arm like a grappling hook. The scales of the pine tree bit through his clothes and scratched his flesh, but he held on with all his might as Abraham's palm began to slip from his. Whatever had been in the trees, had latched onto the man's legs and was trying to drag him to a painful oblivion.

Abraham let out a bloodcurdling scream as something hissed, screeched and Aaron heard something wet hit the forest floor. He couldn't see what it was, but knew it was biting and ripping flesh from Abraham's legs just like it had done to the horses. Terror ran through every vein in the boy's body as Aaron crushed his grip tighter the same time Abraham purposely tried to slip from Aaron's.

Tears ran hot down his face as Abraham's face twisted into an apologetic, but heart-wrenching grimace before he yowled in pain and was pulled from Aaron's hand at last.

He heard him cry out to him as his voice faded into the dark: "RUN AARON!"

He didn't move a muscle; he felt physically crippled as he hugged the tree trunk with both arms and cried into the bark. Abraham's voice tapered away, but his grunts and shouts of pain echoed all around him like ghosts in a catacomb.

Then when he was certain that he was miserably alone, he peeled his face from the tree.

How wrong he was.

Even with the tree blocking his vision, and the branches that reached towards the ground like skeletal arms, he heard the animalistic growl and scratch. It was soft, but feral almost as if the beast couldn't help making the noise knowing that there was still prey around to hunt.

Aaron couldn't move, couldn't do anything without attracting its presence to him, and couldn't believe that Abraham was dead. He had let him go and guilt settled inside him like a heavy stone. All he could do was sit behind the trunk of the tree and cry.

Too afraid to run like Abraham had told him to do.

Too afraid to pick up the Griswold that lay by his feet and fight.

Too afraid to move…

Too afraid to breath…

Too afraid to do anything but wait for it to kill him…

The blonde boy's lips trembled with utter trepidation, and he immediately scuttled backwards like a crab when he saw the bony obsidian tail drop into view and curl its speared end like a cat. His hands managed to grab Abraham's revolver — he didn't even know how he had managed to since his mind gave him no command to do so.

Beyond the evergreen needles obscuring his view, he watched as saliva poured down to the ground like raindrops rolling off a roof's shingle. The tail disappeared from sight and all the heard, besides his blood pounding in his ears, was nails scratching against the bark, branches colliding together and then nothing but a heavy thud behind him. His face went pale, and he was certain if he hadn't of gone to the bathroom earlier, he would have wet his pants now.

Hot breath hit his neck from behind, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand. Aaron began to sob as he heard the breathy hiss grow closer to the back of his naked neck and felt the creature salivating on him and wetting the collar of his brown coat.

Aaron couldn't look, didn't want to look even though a voice in the back of his head suggested he should at least get a look at what was about to kill him. Its presence shadowed over him like a turbulent thunder cloud blotting out any hope for survival. Its teeth clacked loudly from behind, and all he could do was whimper and sob as he waited for the inevitable death blow that was taking an eternity to arrive.

His ears were filled with a metallic snap, almost akin to the sound of a bullwhip cracking, and then followed a horrible screech that cut loudly in his ears. Aaron flinched and screamed while he waited for claws, but instead of grappling at Aaron's flesh, he dared a peek as he whirled around to see the most grotesque black monster he had ever seen digging its hands into the ground and bucking like a lassoed cow.

It was even more undeniably terrifying than he could have ever pictured and all he wanted to do was to turn his eyes away and burn the image of the malignant creature forever from his thoughts. Still, all he could do was stare in shock as it clawed hysterically while trying to gain traction on the mountain soil and free itself from the silver, barbed rope that wrapped around its emaciated-looking torso. Even though it was the most frightful animal he had ever seen, Aaron's first comparison was that it looked like a man except for the long, smooth elongated head, the jagged curves and spikes that armored almost its entire body, and the bony tail that thrashed around wildly.

It squealed in angry protest as it was pulled back towards the woods, helpless against the rope that dangled in the air. Aaron squinted his eyes in the darkness as it continued to be hauled backwards like a fish on a line. Unfortunately, the blackness of the night and the demon on the leash flailing around hid any glimpse he could get at what had just saved his life.

Still hiding under the parasol of pine needles and branches, he watched as it was dragged ten feet away from him and cringed in surprise when it opened its large, mouth at him and then went instantly quiet when the length of a spear came out its mouth and the tip buried itself in the soil like a railroad spike. It stilled after it quivered its last bits of life out, and then slumped to the ground as the spear was pulled from its head.

Aaron blinked and breathed heavily as he heard a sickening sizzle coming from the fresh corpse and steam rise from the juniper colored blood that began to soak the ground. His eyes lifted up, and his breath caught in his throat, strangling him as he had trouble comprehending what he was seeing.

The handle of a silver whip hovered at least 5 feet over the ground, held by the air while the spear that had just killed the serpent-like beast was standing upright like a light pole. There was a faint crackle of electricity, but it was almost more muffled than sharp, and it boomed lightly in the air around the weapons. Materializing from a ripple of blue and white lines of lightning, another monster stood before him.

A frightful gasp escaped from his lips as he took in the tall, imposing and deadly looking muscled man. He could feel its eyes on him through the slits of the gray mask that covered his face between the massive collection of long black dreadlocks. Aaron's eyes landed on the strange marking on the middle of its helmet: A series of lines that while not connected, resembled a pitchfork with the prongs spread wider apart. He would have thought maybe he was the devil, if it wasn't for the other lines at the base of the line that curved down on both sides of the line; like a mirror image of crescent moons. Besides the mask's carved drawing, the mask itself was almost like it was all for show—almost as if was intentional to look like a human face despite the broad, smooth plating to big for any man's face. Even though its skin was beige, he knew it was as human as the dead dragon by its feet. Its skin was speckled with dark brown spots, and it reminded Aaron of a rattlesnake. He also stood tall as a horse as well, and while lean looked just as strong as either Bohannon or Lucifer.

It was also barely wore anything to cover his body except for a leather kilt with a metal codpiece the same color as the scalloped layers of shoulder armor, shin guards, clawed sandals, and heavy gauntlets on both wrists. It also surprised the young boy, when he saw something familiar but still very much alien strapped to his plated shoulder. There was a chubby, strange gun that sat on a perch like a parrot on a pirate's shoulder. It was an odd placement for a weapon, and it almost looked innocent seated still on his massive shoulder. Aaron knew better than to let his guard down and question the lethality of the device although it was stationary. It wouldn't be a part of his arsenal if it weren't.

He looked like some mythological warrior, bound to protect the entrance of some archaic temple that he had traveled far away from. Wherever it had come from, he wished it would return there. However, there was a small sense of gratitude for it even though suspicion and unease pricked at his skin. It had saved his life, and even if he didn't know why, seemed less eager to kill him as the other one had been.

Still, it was no comfort to him because there was no way to discern if the thing was thinking about killing him or sparing him. Aaron felt a shiver travel down his spine like a cold blade's tip as his eyes landed on the clean, ivory skulls of small animals he didn't recognize hanging on a sash over his torso… and gasped quietly in fear at the jawless human skulls attached to a belt on his hips.

A strange clicking, like the sound of bones knocking rapidly together, came from him as it cocked its head to the side at him; studying him like a curious predator sniffing an unfamiliar animal. He lashed his whip once, almost with an aloof flick of his wrist and then twirled the spear as well. Tiny dots melted into the bark of nearby trees from the blood he flicked from both weapons. It took him a moment, but then his jaw slacked when he finally realized that the obsidian demon's blood, was acidic. Even lifeless, it was still deadly to go near.

The reptilian humanoid still held his weapons even as he circled the body and sauntered over to where Aaron was. He gulped and began to move backwards until his back hit the tree. Panic caught in his throat as he looked at both of the savage looking instruments and couldn't help but fearfully wonder which one would be used on him.

Metal slid against metal in a smooth, quick _'schlik'_ as his spear detracted into the size of a slender club.

 _Guess it was going to be the whip._ Aaron exhaled heavily.

His clawed feet stomped towards the tree; he walked casually, but his bulky build still made tremors with each step. As he approached, and the boy's heart pounded like a drum against his ribcage, he began to fondle Abraham's heavy gun with clammy hands and raised its barrel to point at the hulking figure.

For his size, Aaron would have never have even thought for a second it was capable of moving with such incredible speed. He didn't even know he had lunged at him until he felt a hot, scaly hand wrap around his wrist, pull him free of the safety of the tree and lift him high over his its massive head.

With his wrist crushed and the gun pointed straight towards the stars, Aaron winched in pain and began to worm and twist like a rabbit in a snare. He stared down at the emotionless slate colored mask beneath him almost desperately— silently begging him to let him live as he kicked his dangling feet high above the ground.

As his arm flared in pain, threatening to pop from his socket at any moment, Aaron was incredibly aware of the precarious situation he was in. The way he had the gun pointed up, out of the path of fire, in no way felt as if it was defending itself from whatever harm Aaron could have done; the boy was nothing but a bug against a boot. Him holding him high above the ground was only a minuscule example of the strength he truly possessed— and all he was doing was just holding him. Aaron had no doubt he could have crushed his bones into dust with a single squeeze of his clawed hand.

The 7-year old moaned in pain, his shoulder on fire, but still he held him high in the air by his arm…

Until they both heard the screeching.

His dreadlocks flipped to the side, towards the source of the noise and with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the boy away; letting him fall carelessly to the hard, unforgiving soil.

Aaron grunted in pain as he hit the dirt on his side, his ribs feeling as if he had just been heeled by a mule, but miraculously managed to hold on to Abraham's revolver. Blinking back tears of pain, he looked up to see three more of the identical black demons come forth through the darkness.

Orange flames illuminated their glossy sides as they stalked from the trees, and crossed the threshold of Abraham and Aaron's camp. They gnashed their teeth and dripped constant rivulets of saliva from their vicious pointed teeth as they crawled on all fours towards the boy and the armored humanoid.

Aaron rolled to his rear and held the gun in both hands out in front of him as a barbarous and fierce roar came from muscled alien biped. With his arms spread wide, and his dreadlocks subtly flared out like a lion's mane, he cracked his cruel metal bullwhip in a display of aggression as he stormed near them, his muscles tensed with readiness.

The boy looked up in shocked awe at the behemoth. Aaron had been terrified to the core when he saw more demons approach from the darkness, but this false man, didn't show an ounce of fear, and instead was filled with intrepid adrenaline and made the clicking sound again — this time faster and more pitched. He was elated facing death, and Aaron had never in his life seen such morbid delight and anticipation. If this indomitable wall of muscle had a language, Aaron doubted that the word _'fear'_ was even apart of their vocabulary.

One of them charged with ferocious and ravenous speed and only stopped when the whip wrapped around its bony neck. The brute tugged the barbed lash and seemingly without effort, ripped it's head from its shoulders. The head rolled across the ground until it stopped inside of the flames of the dying campfire.

As the other two black dragons neared them, Aaron noticed the small metal cannon on his shoulder whirr to life the same time three red dots appeared on the oblong head of the closest inky demon. The gun, as if with a mind of its own, repositioned itself and aimed as it began to charge with the speed of a mountain lion.

A ball exploded from the gun and flew towards it in a tumbling snowball made of lightning. However, the creature ducked out of the way in time, and the tree behind him obliterated into splinters.

Another electric bullet escaped from the shoulder gun, and as before, missed when the dragon rolled out of its path. The muscled man seemed to have anticipated it would steer out of the way because the next thing Aaron saw was a yellow geyser of blood erupting out of its long head. Broken pieces of blood coated skull rained around the camp before the creature's body slumped to the ground.

Aaron noticed that the last dragon had taken notice of him, crouched low at him and lowered his head in his direction with a scowl. His eyes widened in fear as it began to stalk towards him before sprinting at him with a screech.

Aaron raised Abraham's heavy revolver and fired as he began to shovel his heels into the ground, and tried crawling away as it closed in on him. The child began to mewl in fear, even as the bullets hit the tubular head and caused the monster to shriek in agony and flinch in pain. Abraham's revolver bucked wildly in his hand with each recoil, sending blunt pain across his wrists and shoulders as he held the gun in both hands.

Although wounded in the head, it still came at him with a horrible snarl, and he knew he only had seconds to live before its claws dug into his throat. However, Aaron hadn't been the only one to notice it had locked on a different target.

The demon screeched when the beige giant grabbed it by its tail and pulled it away from Aaron, once again saving him from the jaws of the death. This monster was not like the first one he had saved from Aaron, and the boy heard himself let out a shocked gasp when it whirled on his hulking savior, leaped through the air and collided into him.

The whip flew purposely out of his clawed hand and wrapped around the slick throat. It thrashed above him as it pinned him to the ground, clawing at whatever skin it could reach. Its head bobbed, trying to wiggle from the crushing grip on its neck. A small, square like appendage shot out of its mouth, biting at the air just above his silver mask. After it retracted and detracted several times, Aaron realized that it was not a tongue like he thought it was when he saw it take a small chunk out of the behemoth's chest. It's blood, like the serpent that had him trapped, also had different colored blood and the fluorescent green color almost hurt his eyes.

That was when it hit the boy. It was bleeding! It was killing him!

Even though he knew it was not human, the boy still felt a human eagerness to help— a rapid impulsiveness to save someone in mortal danger. He knew that there was something that he could do to stop this black monster from killing him, even if all he could be was a distraction. Aaron knew that if he didn't at least try and give him the advantage, then he would be joining Abraham on the other side as soon as it was done killing the only obstacle in its way.

It ripped another chunk of flesh from his shoulder, and this time, he heard it roar over the shrill sounds of the creature's frustration that he still could not reach him. That was when Aaron ran for the hatchet.

His feet felt as heavy as boulders as he pumped his arms through the air, running as fast as limbs could towards the campfire. His heart raced with panic as he tried to swallow his fear down his throat. The boy grabbed the small ax from the stump and flew towards the pair still wrestled in a deadly embrace. The monster paid no attention to him as he approached and he raised the hatchet as high as he could over his head and buried it as deep as he could into its skull.

It hissed in agony and threw its skinny arm back, striking Aaron in the stomach and sailing him through the air. Fire mushroomed all over his chest, and he winced in pain as he fought against the barrage of tears threatening to spill. For such a skinny arm, it felt as if he had just been struck by a bull.

His affliction hadn't gone unrewarded, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the huge humanoid roll the creature on its back— finally granted with the leverage he needed.

The inner mouth shot out again, and this time, he grabbed it and with a couple of tugs, tore it out altogether. It bubbled up acidic blood as he quickly climbed to his feet, held the demon down with a foot and with the other, stomped as hard as it could on the hatchet head sticking out of its slick bulbous head.

With a sickening crunch, the hatchet cut through its skull under the weight of its foot. They both watched as it quivered and died by the time the acid ate through the wood of the handle. He removed his foot from the carcass the same time the wooden handle of the hatchet _'thunked'_ to the ground.

Immediately, a strange cloud of uneasiness hovered in the space above them and replaced the excitement and horror of what the boy had witnessed. Aaron was no stranger to death, and was thankfully satisfied to see the oily monsters dead, but he still could not comprehend anything that had just happed; like he had just awoken from some lucid nightmare.

As the mammoth, who didn't even look at his ghastly weeping wounds on his pectorals, withdrew a cobalt blue liquid in a glass vial and began to walk around the camp. Only adding more to the boy's already daunting mountain of confusion, he watched as he poured the liquid, that rivaled his green blood in luminescence, and watched as the earth swallowed the demons.

Aaron understood that it was acidic as the blood of the creatures, but he what he didn't understand was why he was pouring it on them. The boy was beginning to doubt if he was ever going to comprehend a single thing about the herculean enigma.

After all of the creatures had vanished from existence, the only evidence that they had even been here was Aaron's bruised chest and the green blood dripping down its bare torso, it stalked towards him.

Even the way it walked was mysterious; it didn't saunter towards him with anger, or the desire to kill him, or even indifference. The boy knew he had to be contemplating something because its expressionless mask never left his face.

As it came to a halt right in front of him, Aaron shrunk slightly in his shadow, but still dared to stare him in the eye. It made the clicking noise again and tilted his head at Aaron slightly. The boy still didn't know what that meant, and he wished the goddamn thing would just spit it out already. A little discontented by its lack of explanation, the boy narrowed his eyes in anger at him and asked the only question that came to mind.

"Where's Abraham?" his small voice demanded. In all honesty, he was surprised he was able to utter the words. The creature may not have killed him, but he still was apprehensive towards him. With a single blow, he could end his life if he wanted to and Aaron would never see the it coming.

Again, it stared at him; never uttering a word and never lowering its shield. Instead, the unknown male— at least he guessed it was male— walked towards where he had discarded the demon's appendage. Picking it up, he wandered back towards the boy. The masked being looked at the disgusting inner mouth that hung like a dead trout in his hand, curling his clawed fingers around it — mulling over something— before he looked back at Aaron.

To his astonishment, the creature spoke in the deepest, most garbled baritone voice he had heard. "Keep..."

It tossed the severed limb at the boy, as if rewarding him with a medal. The boy's reflexes kicked up, and without his permission, caught the creature's limb in his hands. It was repulsively slippery and its slick, translucent saliva clung to his hand like glue.

Aaron looked down in disgust at it and noticed that the monster had turned its back and was storming away from him. The 7-year-old bristled with anger and impulsively, jumped to his feet with the limb trying to jump from his hand as he raced after him.

Whipping his hand back and with an angry grunt, he threw the vile gift back — aiming for the back of his head. "I don't want yer goddamn' souvenir!"

As soon as it hit the back of his thick hair, and landed on the ground by his heels, the armored male stopped dead in his tracks. A worrisome expression came over his face, and for a moment, he really regretted what he did. Still, the stubborn boy puffed up his chest as it continued to give him his back.

"What happened to Abraham! I know you gotta know somethin'!" he hollered at him. Aaron felt his eyes prick with tears, and with the back of his dirty coat sleeve, he wiped them away— secretly thankful that it didn't see him crying at the same time.

It said nothing, but it did tip its head slightly over its shoulder to regard him with a side-glance; acknowledging him that he was listening at least, even if his demeanor still seemed unmoved.

"Please..." Aaron croaked out, more tears spilling and this time not caring if it saw. "Help me find him...?"

Its head and shoulders lifted briefly up and he heard it grunt softly— was it scoffing at him? The child's fists tightened— shaking— and felt his nails bury painfully into his skin as his face twisted in anger. The boy stormed over and picked up the Griswold and then tried to storm past him.

"If you ain't gonna help me, then I'll go kill every one of those cocksuckers myself!" Aaron declared, hotly huffing out his words with every step. As the boy attempted to pass by his massive thigh that was bigger than his torso, he squeaked in fright when he felt a clawed hang grab the front of his shirt and lift him.

As it brought him eye level, and dangled him feet off the ground, Aaron felt all of his irate determination flutter out of him faster than a frightened bird. The boy gulped as he hung uncomfortably from the front of his shirt, and the seams of his clothes dig painfully under his arms. He felt its nails scratch across his hand as it pulled the Griswold from his grasp, and tossed it the side into the woods without a glance— his stare persistently on the boy.

"Sire... is _dead_..." It told him with its guttural voice. It stated it matter-of-factly— without remorse— and Aaron felt his heart shatter at the undeniable truth he had been trying to ignore. Hanging limply, and crying, he fell on his bottom when it dropped him to the ground. He sniffled as he stared at the steeled clawed sandals.

"Foolhardy... pup..." it said to him, as it turned its back to him once again. "Still... _somewhat_...strong."

Aaron lifted his head just in time to see his silhouette drowned out in a shimmer of electricity and invisible ripples through the air. He could only make out the outline of his body for a few brief seconds, before he vanished completely from existence.

Leaving the grieving boy alone and in mercy of the dark.

Unbeknownst to both the Yautja and the human child, their meeting was merely a prelude to the calamity that would befall on both of them in another world they had no knowledge of yet.

* * *

 **A/N:** This work is a labor of love and in no way own any of the properties except my own original characters. Feel free to leave feedback. I am open to reviews, constructive criticism and suggestions. Hope you enjoyed the product and thank you for reading. I also have a tumblr under the same name as my A03 name.


	2. Chapter 2

** Chapter 2   
** **Heathens**

* * *

**October 2004  
**

Charles Bishop Weyland wasn't even the least bit surprised that Yutani was calling him. Both of them hardly called the other merely just to check up, or by coincidence. It was almost as if his rival had been informed the moment _he_ had called out the order. The only response he could emanate was a breathy chuckle that left almost inaudibly through his closed lips. _Almost._

His only son, Peter, rose from the black leather chair in front of his father's meticulously organized, dark cherry desk. They had been through this routine before, and neither of them had to address their conflicting viewpoints about the matter. However, as Peter's cobalt eyes glared at the rivets of rain that ran down the window of his father's penthouse window, Charles could feel his son's enmity. Peter ran his palm through his slicked blonde hair and straightened his gray suit jacket so hard that if there had been a speck of dust on it, it would have hastily been blown away by the single tug.

Peter only glanced his way once, the second time the phone rang, and this time the younger of the two men didn't hide what he felt. His angular features, similar in design to his own father's but sharper, twitched with annoyance; the muscles in his cheeks flexing when he ground his teeth together. Although he was silent about it now, his father knew how much he distrusted Yutani, and thought of her and her robotics company as nothing but parasites in the way of the Weyland Industries' progress.

It was not that Charles trusted Yutani more because of his history with her. Their cordial relationship didn't make him naïve; he just simply participated in the adage of 'keeping your enemies close.' He created this business, grew it from nothing, and kept it alive by making the best choices he could. Yutani had done the same, and 'Bishop' knew that she felt the same way in regards to him because not only of their history, but how well each of their companies had done.

They were equal— almost mirror images of each other— and that was concerning to both of them. He would never admit it to Yutani, and perhaps it was just paranoia sprouted from the knowledge that the lung cancer would kill him soon, but Charles was uneasy about Yutani more than she was of him.

A smaller company puffing its chest and foolishly went after Weyland Industries he could bury. However, a company that was just as powerful as his, that was something to worry about.

Yutani and Weyland both knew that sooner or later, one of them would grow stronger than the other. So, in the best interests of their companies, their relationship was civil to a certain degree.

It angered the board, who Charles swore had the same mentality as his son sometimes, but suited Weyland Industries in the end even if it that meant the Yutani Corporation did as well. She had often chuckled in response and said that her board members also felt the same way, even if they didn't even dare to voice it to her. Her board knew what happened when they questioned her. Her sternness could render the most outspoken men mute with just a single look. Yutani was no dictator, though, and her board members could voice their concerns, but it was up to their female CEO whether she saw it as perusable or not.

Weyland on the other hand, earned harsher words about his decisions, but in the end, they had always benefitted the company. In return, he seldom nowadays ever heard any retaliation from the board after each new success. Now that his lung cancer was worsening, he realized that not a single person from the committee said anything. Charles scoffed internally. He didn't need their pity. However, the one person that he could always count on to reprimanded him, he just didn't have the heart to fire.

"I will leave you to pack," was his son's indifferent remark. Weyland gave a single, almost melancholy, nod in response. It was as good as a good-bye he was ever going to get from Peter.

For months now, Weyland had been trying to convince Peter to keep the company's good relations with Yutani, but each time the discussion came up Peter was quick to disregard it. Even if Charles put it in his will doubted Peter would hold true to his word. Their relationship had never been the best even before the negotiations and Charles always blamed himself for it, but despite everything he had faith that Peter would take care of his legacy.

The young man was smarter than he would ever be— he proved that at age 14 when he constructed that synthetic trachea. He was an inventor, a maverick, and would no doubt win a Noble Peace Prize someday. However, Peter knew all of this as well. The younger Weyland never once questioned his self-worth and because of it, Charles knew his vanity would be his downfall. The 24-year-old was hot-headed, unwavering, and too ambitious than what his father thought the company needed. Charles prayed that he realized it was a weakness instead of a strength and changed it for the greater good, or at least hoped he didn't take the company down with him because of his personality follies.

As soon as he heard Peter exit out the front door, Weyland walked from his bed and picked up the telephone that sat on his desk. He did his best to suppress a hoarse cough that surfaced the moment he lifted the receiver, but it was useless. His chest ached, and he shut his eyes as he let out the string of rough and agonizing coughs. Pain coursed through every inch of his body but did not burn as much as his lungs did. After the fit finally settled, and he felt a twinge of embarrassment for letting Yutani hear it - even if she was aware of his current health situation.

"How are you feeling, Charles?"

He cleared his throat and raised his chin with reassurance as if she was in the room with him. "I'm looking forward to better days ahead. At least, that's what my doctors tell me," he lied.

"You have never been a good liar," Yutani commented. The corner of his mouth pulled up into a grimace, he could almost see her bitterly smiling on the other end of the receiver; not with malignant joy learning of his weakening health, but as one friend to another who was lamenting about his condition as well.

"Is there a reason you called?" he asked, changing the subject. He didn't like to spend too much on the subject—especially with other businesspeople.

There was a pause, almost as if she was assessing whether she should come out with it or not. "You are not the only one hunting for _minerals_."

Charles gave a small _'hmph'_ as a response and waited for her to continue. Weyland knew that she would have picked up on the scent seconds after he had, but Yutani and Weyland respected each other enough to humbly submit if one or the other found something first unlike other corporations that fought over claims like children in a sandbox. Still, these _minerals_ were too important to let slip away.

"However, your satellite picked it up first, so I will not impede," Yutani avowed.

"We both know you have already found a way," Weyland stated flatly. "Whether I'll be able to see it in time, or whether I care at the moment is the only reason why you called."

Despite their respect over who found an item of importance first, it still didn't mean that there weren't avenues to exploit. They both had their strengths and weaknesses in their companies and whenever there was a valuable resource the other needed—and quickly— a negotiated fee was always what the two enterprises settled with. This time, he needed Yutani's equipment - and now - and she knew he did. It was not only the cancer that was giving his operation such time restrictions but the other sharks in the water that would catch a smell of the blood trail soon. Their competitors were not as willing to partition.

Any other day, he would have tried to talk her out of it, and reassure that he didn't need her help in this venture since it was such a grandiose prize. Yutani would have respected and backed off if it was anything else, however, Weyland knew her commitment far surpassed his when it came to the Predators.

Besides aliens, there wasn't anyway else to describe the extraterrestrial head hunters they knew nothing about. In fact, the name had been coined by a mercenary who came in contact with them and survived his encounter; the other members of his team weren't so lucky.

In regards to the Predators, both Yutani and Weyland had different goals in mind when it came to what they wanted from their alien visitors, and it was the only subject they butted heads about.

Weyland Industries was primarily interested in research about not only the species themselves, but the metal that was nearly unattainable on Earth. Rarer than osmium and worth more than all the gold in Fort Knox's vault, it was 15 times harder than diamonds, more versatile than steel and unbeknownst except to a few, was the most precious mineral on Earth.

They had named it Trimonite. One of his own scientists named it. Weyland's goal was to have it on the periodic table in every public school by the time they revealed the pyramid. Whether the general public knew about the aliens or not was not really of importance of him, but rather what they could learn from their technology. The pyramid would be a stepping stone into deciphering their customs, rituals, language and most importantly, how to use the Trimonite. He had his doubts that revealing they were not alone in the universe would bring about more good than bad. People panicked in the 1940's when Orson Welles read _War of the Worlds_ over the radio, and he hated imagining the hysteria revealing the existence of a species far more advanced than them, would bring about. As much as he felt guilty withholding the fact there were wolves among them, it was for the best to leave the pyramid's builders and ambiguous as he could. Let people believe there was another part of human history they were just discovering, and let the ones that believed in the alien theory to keep wearing their aluminum hats.

Over the past 20 years, after first learning about the Predators, Weyland Industries had managed to find scraps of the metal scattered across Earth. They were minuscule amounts and Weyland always had the suspicion that it was apart of a ship that exploded into meteorite size pieces to Earth eons ago. While the Trimonite was essential for their robotics division, there was still not enough for them to mass produce and any samples they did collect, was being used and re-used for different synthetic prototypes.

At this point, everything was trial and error with the Trimonite despite that its molecular structure had opened up opportunities for their robotics division. Still, even after all these years, they still knew really nothing about the metal and race of beings that used it. Charles hoped that the pyramid would be his Rosetta Stone to finally understanding it.

Yutani had different plans for the Trimonite and the Predators. Peter had suggested to him, and sometimes he agreed even, that her obsession as something akin to the plot of a bad sci-fi movie. Weyland was aware of the military contracts her company had with the U.S government, and just like the cliché megalomaniac villain of an evil cooperation, she wanted the Trimonite to weaponize it. Unlike Weyland, who saw the exotic metal as the a valuable commodity, his rival company only seemed interested in the next military contract.

Despite how many time Peter tried to put the earworm into his head, Charles knew that deep down that Yutani's goal was to create a deterrent rather than destruction. Although she had respect for the Predators and saw them as godlike, she feared them - probably more than he did.

Charles couldn't blame her; the thought had been at the back of his own mind once or twice, but in his own opinion, he only saw them as tourists. Weyland knew from the videos and first-hand accounts that hunting and death were the only reason why they bothered with Earth. If their otherworldly visitors wanted conquest, they would have invaded their planet centuries ago, and human history would have been vastly different.

Even though she was adamant in her reason, Weyland knew her well enough to know there was an ulterior motive behind her simple explanation that she simply didn't trust them. All she had offered to him each time he debated it to her was the same excuse: that she wanted the Trimonite for weapons for the military.

However, Charles couldn't help but think she was hiding something from him and perhaps, like him, Yutani thought the answer was inside the pyramid as well.

"I know you are having trouble looking for a drilling team on short notice," she suddenly said, pulling him from his thoughts and back to the conversation. Weyland waited for the proposal and the _'but'_ that always came next. "I am willing to assist you with that, but on a few conditions."

"Such as?" Charles already knew what she was going to ask for - he would have done the same.

"A percentage of the Trimonite your team salvages from the pyramid in compensation," Yutani motioned. Her tone darkened, and the strong, unmovable persona she gave over the phone would have scared any other CEO into agreeing with her terms the instant she gave them. He playfully scoffed internally; it wasn't Weyland's first time playing this game.

"Unless _your_ company takes care of the expenses for your drill team, to move them _and_ the equipment to the ship and then to Antarctica, the best I can give you is 20 percent."

Yutani scoffed. "I will pay the for my drill team and whatever price tag they ring up. 45 percent."

"You seem certain that there is Trimonite in the pyramid. How do you know that this is not some sort of lost Atlantis in the ice? Unless you know something that I don't," he countered, his lips almost pulling into a smile.

Weyland did have a point: there was no guarantee that this pyramid was even alien construction - especially after his experts had agreed that the architecture was similar to other cultures. Cambodian, Egyptian and Aztec elements were integrated into the massive multi-chamber structure, but even with the Earth based framework, that should have felt familiar to him, he saw it as anything but. Yutani must have thought the same as him, otherwise she wouldn't have brought up the next subject.

"We can talk about percentages and compensation at another time, Charles," she began. There was a heaviness in her voice that wavered on unease more than it did discontent.

"I am assuming it's because this conversation is not being recorded and your lawyers are not present?" the older businessman grimaced. "Otherwise, we would still be talking about drill teams and Trimonite."

The woman sighed over the phone. "In regards to the pyramid and just how little we know about… _them,_ I would like to propose to you my OWLF team to you on the excursion."

Weyland scoffed. "Now you are being nosey. I can assemble my own team."

"Charles, I am not offering my team to spy on your operation," Yutani bit back. "You have no time and they are the best you will find on such short notice. Considering _whose_ pyramid you are venturing into, there is no other task force in the world more capable than they are."

"I have my own connections as well," Weyland bit back, trying to stubbornly end the discussion. "I appreciate your concern, but I have this covered."

Weyland listened to her sigh on the other line. Rarely did she ever walk the tightrope between friendship and business. Yutani wasn't exactly a sentimental woman, and loneliness was usually her most predominant lover that visited her, but when it came to Charles Bishop Weyland, she allowed herself to show some vulnerability. As far as he knew, he was the only one she ever did that with and it was an ironic comedy considering that they were supposed to be rivals.

"I must ask you why you intend to oversee this operation yourself," she solemnly relented. She paused, and asked bluntly: "Has waiting and delaying the cancer made you impatient?"

He couldn't help but take slight offense to that, but he had no strength for a heated response nor the patience. Charles knew better as well that her candidness was just a masquerade for her concern for him. They both had a clear premonition that even if they didn't encounter their intergalactic friends in the pyramid, that the trip itself would be strenuous on him. Most undoubtedly his last. With that in mind, there was also no way he could stay behind and watch everything through video and wait on progress reports over the phone. Between his robotics, satellites and nanotechnology, nothing seemed as grandiose enough for him to leave behind as his final legacy—his greatest accomplishment that he would be remembered for. The pyramid, with its exotic culture, minerals and possibly being the discovery of the 21st century, was his last chance to leave behind his mark in history. It was his opportunity to climb Everest first, then he would be the carrying the flag to the top.

"It's not suicide," he affirmed. "I plan on coming back."

"And if you don't?" she asked. Her voice heavy with pensive thought.

He gave a bitter smile before he responded: "Well, at least nobody remembers the guy that comes in second."

There was a soft chuckle on her end of the receiver. "I hope you are right. Goodbye Charles."

Weyland hung up the phone before she did. The morose last words picked at him like crows at stalks of corn and deflated his already gloomy mood even more. He probably should have told her goodbye - as well as Peter - but he stubbornly refused to let himself believe that he would die on this trip, even though nobody, including himself, thought the odds were in his favor.

Another hoarse fit of coughs left him and this time, he barked them out, it left his muscles aching not only in his chest but everywhere else. Reaching for the plastic mask, he feed himself air until they surpassed. The pain still lingered in his lungs, as well as every other muscle fiber in his body. Charles despised the weakness, the medicine, his tired achy body. He hated all the symptoms the reminded him his clock was ticking down. Still, like almost everything, he fueled that hatred and used it to power his determination to get to the pyramid first.

Weyland would make sure this discovery out-shadowed his death.

It would be the greatest accomplishment he could ask for if everything went right.

He frowned as he wondered how lucky he might be, and what sacrifices he had to make to ensure that.

Weyland reached for the manila envelope containing the documents that had arrived before Peter's departure. One by one he scanned the profiles of each mercenary to provide security on the expedition.

They were good. Perhaps too good and it immediately roused suspicion. Charles had a theory, and maybe it was just paranoia, but the team's skill and its coincidental availability that favored his rushed schedule. A group of mercenaries this good didn't have dry bank accounts— they were always working –and because Weyland hadn't told them anything about the true nature of the pyramid, he wondered why they were eager to join.

He shook his head. Maybe it was a just curiosity for the unknown, a lust for adventure and new scenery, or just because a job was a job. It could have all been in his head as well, but Yutani's offer for her government taskforce team to lend a hand, buzzed in his head—refusing to leave him alone. Regardless, and feeling as if it was against his will, there was no time to do the background check he would have preferred. With no time to spare, he took the gamble, picked up the phone and made the call.

* * *

**Lho La Icefall, Nepal**   
**October 2004**

"My name is Maxwell Stafford. I represent Weyland Industries."

It wasn't the crisp, cold wind on his face that made him grimace, but what he had just said. Stafford was thankful that Alexa Woods hadn't reached the top to see it. Perhaps, even without knowing him, she would have been able to see the lie he had been forced to repeat over and over. Hopefully, after this final task, he would never have to utter it again.

Yes, he represented Weyland Industries, but that was not the only company he was affiliated with.

It hadn't been an easy task for Yutani to bypass all of Weyland's background checks on Stafford and his team but after the taxing and intricate work that had been done. Every member of his OWLF team were now under the personas of mercenaries hired by Weyland Industries for the expedition to Bouvetøya Island. Despite that Stafford was confident that Yutani's military connections helped deceive the other company, he knew not to underestimate Charles Bishop Weyland— no matter how frail his condition. Although Stone had told him that the chances were slim of being discovered, Stafford still found himself questioning if Weyland would figure it out or not.

Every time he had a conversation with the older man, it made the ex-British Special Forces Captain wonder if he was playing a poker game with him. If Weyland was anything like Yutani, which he started to suspect that he was, he knew that Weyland would have been meticulous about who he hired despite his time constraints. Ever since they did get the job, Max had always noticed something suspicious in his old blue eyes. As if each time he looked at him, he was swallowing a bitter pill. They were mercenaries, the best of the best and they didn't need fake profiles to prove it, but Stafford could see past Weyland's guard.

Yutani had told Stafford how Weyland had rejected the idea, but maybe he had a change of heart about the OWLF team after all, and saw their importance even if they accepted paychecks from Yutani in the end. It was still Weyland's prize to claim, and perhaps his rush to get to the Antarctica island had allowed them to slip through the cracks just this once.

_"The best is all I'll take."_ was what Charles had told him when Stafford asked what he wanted out of them. The OWLF leader hadn't failed to notice the half-smile the flickered briefly across his pale face when he had said that.

They both knew who they were, but Weyland was a slave to time and burdened with the choice he had made; there was no resetting the clock. The billionaire had to trust them, whatever he thought their true motives were. Maxwell wished he could be honest with him. Yutani had given them a list of simple commands, but none as important making sure that they protected Weyland— since that was what they were hired for to being with.

They were there to observe, protect and collect as much data on the pyramid as they could sneak out. If Weyland was correct, and the pyramid could help provide insight on the alien culture, then it would propel R and D's development and give her military investors weaponry to drool over. Unlike Weyland Industries, Yutani Robotics had already cracked the code on how to use the Trimonite. They had the decoder for some time now, and from what he had heard on the grapevine, was discovered 20 years ago in the Pacific Ocean near New Zealand.

While on a small percentage of the alien technology was salvable, the ship's metal was what propelled Yutani years ahead of the competition. Weyland had pieces; bits of broken debris from the ship. While Weyland was collecting dust, Yutani already had the nugget of gold they needed.

Mostly, Stafford liked to believe that the reason for the OWLF's presence on the expedition was to look out for its leader, and learning more about the Predators was an excuse but still an objective.

Maxwell could see what Yutani saw in him and despite that he was nothing more than a spy—an enemy to Bishop's company— the captain still wished to see Weyland's dream realized. There was almost a childlike sense of wonder whenever he spoke to him about the pyramid; an explorer's zeal that he could see despite the stern, tired persona he displayed constantly. What he felt, Stafford measured up as being nothing but pity. There was a tragic element to his excitement— because the obvious truth that Charles could never shake off his shoulders, regardless of how he tried to ignore it, was that he was a dead man on borrowed time.

It made Stafford want Charles to make it to the pyramid as much as he did. The sincere thought made it only easier for him to work and move forward at the pace that Weyland had set. It also helped the CEO accept him as a valuable asset that he couldn't afford to replace at the moment.

Stafford couldn't help but wonder how long Charle's indifference would last. Until they reached the pyramid? Until he had enough proof to sue? He frowned at the latter; the former solider had a feeling that was the ace up his sleeve, and there were already people investigating into as he froze his ass off on the mountain. At this point, he doubted that he had as much patience for that legal bullshit as much as Maxwell did, but what about when they were done?

However, who knew if they would even be alive for all that, anyway?

His brown eyes immediately looked up at the cloudless sky above him on the glacier. Stafford cynically lifted the corner of his mouth to the side as he suspiciously scanned the azure ceiling above him, wondering what _they_ were doing at the moment.

Were they on their way?

Were they already here?

Were they watching him now?

Did they know as much as he did about Weyland's expedition?

After 10 years of hunting the hunters, Stafford knew not to misjudge them. Video footage, pictures, first-hand witness accounts, and even finding the skinned bodies were as close as the OWLF team had gotten in years since 97'. Stafford sincerely hoped they would be no-shows at the pyramid. It had only taken 1 Predator to kill a team of highly skilled mercenaries, and there was only so much protection he could provide to civilians.

Then again, perhaps they wouldn't show up at all. Maxwell would have given the thought permission to settle him, but there was one thing that kept him from doing so.

The heat bloom.

It had all the warning signs of a trap, and he could not shake the feeling no matter how hard he tried. His team thought so as well, even if they didn't voice it. Most of them were able to dismiss it, and focus on the mission; he thought that was unwise on his team's part. Stafford remembered Verheiden had scoffed and said: _"That's what the guns are for."_

Verheiden had never seen one of them face to face, in fact only Stone and himself had, and ironically the reason they survived was because they _didn't_ have any guns. The British mercenary frowned heavily at the memory and even high on the top of the frozen waterfall, he could still feel the heat of the Costa Rican jungle on him from that day.

He tugged at the lip of his navy blue turtleneck, the heavy wool suddenly constricting his air flow. It had not been too long ago since he had felt hot, reptilian fingers around his throat in the same spot as the blue fabric.

"Let me guess he's suing us again?" Woods asked sarcastically over the phone, pulling him from the memory.

The corner of his mouth picked up in an unenthusiastic smile to her joke. "You misunderstand," Stafford replied, shaking his head and resuming his façade.

Despite his reservations and his history with the intergalactic head-hunters, there was no way to stop the train that was in motion. All he could do was hope there wasn't anything waiting for them at the final destination, and if there was, make sure he kept his gun on him this time.

* * *

**December 25, 2004**

_Killed when the island collapsed._ That was the story everyone knew. It had been the only story anyone would accept and never question.

_"Your father was a brave man."_ That had been Alexandra Woods' words to him. Peter didn't mourn his father, though; he only mourned what he failed to retrieve.

The last Weyland swirled the whiskey and watched as the ice clanked against the walls of the glass. Downing the las bit of it, he angrily let the cup slid against the smooth surface of the pristine glass desk of his office. It squealed for a moment before it came to halt against the bulky satellite phone only his personal assistant knew he had.

Pushing himself out of his chair, he walked over the window and stared outside. Christmas was coming to a close as the last amber lights burned across the horizon. Peter stayed at the window until the sun dipped under and only the artificial lights coming from the city across the bay pinpricked the dark curtain of night. His fist struck the window above his head in frustration, rattling the window pane slightly and sending small tremors against the surface of his forehead. He could see his blue eyes darken at his reflection in the window as if it were another entity scorning him.

Even if the space bastards did show up, they were supposed to kill everyone and then leave—not bury the whole island into the sea! Now, there was nothing left to salvage!

Panning towards the satellite phone that sat on his desk, the device itself a vulgarity amongst the taintless state of the art technology on his desk, and glared in resentment towards the inanimate object. Peter was supposed to of made the phone call months ago, but _they_ had been the ones to call him instead.

_"So, it's lost then, eh?"_ The younger Weyland could still hear the man's sardonic, dark chuckle. _"Still better your daddy than us buried under the snow."_

Bitterly, he exhaled out his nose and turned away from the desk. Still, as if the phone was a vessel for the person who gave it to him, he could still feel it behind him. The fist above his head tightened, and he felt pain in his palm from his own fingernails cutting into his flesh.

It was not supposed to be this way! For the sake of his own life, and everything he had hoped to achieve, he was not supposed to lose the Trimonite inside the pyramid! Minimally, it was to be his ticket to the lifeboat in part of paving the road towards progress.

His father had always thought so small; always caring about what pertained to him on this miserable blue ball they lived on. There had never been any doubt in Peter's mind that his father was also approached by them, but had refused. Luckily, Peter wasn't so small-minded.

While Charles Weyland dreamed of building a lunar base in the Sea of Tranquility, Peter's goals reached farther than the moon. It was the question that drove science and religion, that plagued almost everybody on the planet at one time or another, and had always been his obsession to answer.

Where did they come from and how had humanity come to be?

Little had he realized not too long ago, his planet wasn't the only one trying to solve that enigma. The Predators were only a small percentage inside the population that included realms and other monsters. There were more worlds among them, separated by science that Peter still had no luck at understanding—and he refused to use the word 'magic' as a viable explanation.

What surprised him the most about learning of these other realms existence, was they were currently at war— and Earth was losing. They were being conquered by a chaotic, and more powerful world and only a handful of people—including himself—knew about it. Peter had a hard time believing it until he saw the realm—Outworld—with his own eyes. Then, there was no choice but to join. Peter Weyland refused to lose, even if it meant making deals with devils. There was only one thing he had to do in return for safe passage.

Help create the Cyber Lin Kuei.

At first, he thought the task would be an easy—robotics was what he excelled best at— but after meeting with Grandmaster Oniro and the Black Dragon leader, Kano, about what their vision was, he understood how daunting it would truly be.

Although he had some experience with combing technology with organic materials, even he would be foolish if he didn't admit that this cyborg project didn't have its difficulties. The challenge did not sway him away, though—he welcomed it. There was no progress if he was not challenged.

Unbeknownst to his father, he had been answering the challenge for 2 years now. The easiest task had been creating the dummy company, Borgia Industries that was his workshop for the Cyber Initiative. Borgia went under the disguise of a weapon's manufactory in the Xicheng District of Beijing, and so far nobody was the wiser. The only difficulty had been making sure any bread crumbs leading to Weyland Industries were found and destroyed—especially when they were dealing with the Black Dragon of all criminal organizations. However, after the dust settled, he wouldn't have to worry about Borgia being his creation, but for now, it was the best safeguard.

The Black Dragon were actually more useful than Peter had thought they would be. Kano and his men did the dirty work: sabotaging Yutani when they could, stealing scraps of Trimonite and the alien weaponry from their facilities, and making sure the Borgia factory was staffed with discrete workers and scientists. Still, they had hit a blockade in their plans. Although they had Trimonite, Peter had the same problem as his father had: they had it, but had no idea how to use it.

The 24-year-old had a feeling that Yutani already knew how to, but so far every attempt to unveil if she did or not, ended up disastrous. Her security measures were simply better with Special Forces as one of her best clients.

It wasn't that Peter actually needed her research, he just wanted to make sure that she couldn't do anything with it. Weyland, or rather, Borgia Industries, would eventually decode the secret to the elusive mineral, and get underway. Trimonite was the best material in their arsenal, and after countless tests, nothing did as well with organic tissue than it did. It was the pioneer material into the world of biomechatronics and what Weyland Industries would soon be known for on top of satellite technology.

Peter looked out the window, his eyes gliding over the surface of the buildings in the obsidian distance. It was strange to know when the end was coming, and for a moment, envied the simple man's ignorance— for a moment. The younger Weyland was not a simple man and even in his heart before he knew about Armageddon on their doorstep, did not want to share Trimonite with blue-collar men with fleeting lives and no ambition for greatness.

There was a soft knock at the door before he heard the light click of the knob turn. Peter's stern gaze left the city behind and instead went towards the translucent image of his female secretary in the window. Younger than him by only a year, but a child compared to his own intelligence, she walked across the wood floor of his office; black heels clacking across the floor with reluctant rhythm.

His blonde eyebrows rose sharply at her without bothering to turn around — making her fully aware that Peter knew she was trying to gauge his expression by spying on his reflection in the window. The slender woman approached with more confidence that he saw merely as a small show of defiance. He snorted lightly at her demeanor. Just because they fucked once, and she knew about the _satellite phone_ , didn't make them equals no matter how useful she was. He sensed her own agenda— she stunk of it— and figured she was only as loyal in hopes of escaping the sinking ship with him.

_Such a naïve thought_ , he mused to himself. "What is it, Miss Logan?"

The corner of Donna Logan's face twitched at his acid tone, and she strolled over to him with her hands clasped behind her back. Peter watched her in the window's reflection as she sat on the end of his desk, smoothed the top of her gray skirt with her hand and looked at the satellite phone by her thigh with a frown. An envelope was in her soft grip, and he looked at it before back to her.

There were 5 years left now, and he could feel his ticket start to disintegrate into ashes every time he had to look at the phone, and in turn, washed away her hopes as well. This time, Donna dawned a different expression. Her rose colored lips curved up into a grin as she tucked a strand of dark hair that had fallen from her bun behind her ear.

"This came for you today, Mr. Weyland," Logan began.

"And?" he barked, his eyes still scrutinizing her reflection.

"It's an address and also ended up in _my_ mailbox, but I believe it was always intended for you, sir," she answered. Her brown eyes twinkled as if she was laughing at him and Peter immediately hated it. Withdrawing himself from the window, he walked over to her. Donna was looking down at the opened envelope until he reached his desk. Her eyes shot up at him before she tossed the paper on his desk. Picking herself up from the glass table, she walked towards the door.

"Your appointments are covered for the next few days with a suitable alibi until you get back," Donna smirked. "Or however long you need to take. Your plane is fueled and ready."

Logan glided away— strutting like a peacock—as if the envelope she had given to him was the cure for cancer. Peter glowered in annoyance at her stupidity; just because it was in her mail slot, didn't make her any more important than what she was. Logan was a pawn that thought herself as a rook on the chessboard when she was lucky to even to be a part of the game.

"Bring back a souvenir," the secretary called to him, her voice a snobbish sing-song tune that bounced off the walls. The door closed behind her, and he reached for the letter.

_We got it and more._

_Get to the island._

9 words out of context that would have been a riddle to anyone reading, filled Weyland with anticipation. The 24-year old CEO brought the knuckle of his index finger to his lips when he read over and over the only part of the message that puzzled him.

_We got it and more._

Did that mean? Did they get the ship and _him_?

Weyland grabbed his black jacket of his suit from the oil-colored leather chair and headed for the door. Crumbling the paper and throwing it into the fireplace, he exited the door and passed by Donna who chicken-pecked at her keyboard with her manicured nails. Without even looking up from her work on the computer screen, she wished him luck, as he headed for the elevator.

* * *

**Lost Sea**   
**Earthrealm**

Peter Weyland's hands gripped the rail of the Chinese Junk ship and let himself retch over the side. The young businessman had never been able to control his sea-sickness, no matter how much Dramamine he took. He wished that his pilot could fly to the damn island, instead of having him take the rest of the journey on the Outworlder's ship, especially given the company he was forced to share it with. However, Shang Tsung insisted that he arrived in the same manner, and for the most part, Weyland understood his need for secrecy; it was no different than having a black bag over his head.

He felt a strong hand slap the back of his shoulder blades and knocked the wind out of him with every pat.

"Aw, don't look so down, " a thick accented voice crooned sarcastically. "Nothin' wrong with chummin'. Fishys appreciate it, that's for sure."

The leader of the Black Dragon chuckled at his own joke as he came to stand next to him. Weyland straightened his posture and fixed his red tie. The CEO looked over in the Australian's direction and glided his eyes over him with a stoic expression. Kano never missed an opportunity to goad him when he could, and each attempt was as exasperating as the next. Between the both of them, they thought of one another as inferior. Kano saw him as nothing more than a pretty boy with daddy's money, and Peter saw him as a moronic pirate. Both men knew that there was a reason why they had caught Shang Tsung's eye, and while Peter didn't need to partake in something as childish as berating, could see Kano resented him. The mercenary had every right to, after all, Weyland was the one with the better resources.

"Did Tsung happen to mention anything about why he called us?" Peter asked.

Kano blinked at him before he lifted the side of his mouth into a smirk. "What? Shang didn't tell ya?"

"And he told _you_?" The CEO shot back with a doubtful tone.

A small scoff escaped from Kano before he glowered. "Nah. Didn't say either. He's gotta thing for surprises, ya know? I hope it's something special. Maybe the pony your daddy never bought you for your 12th birthday."

Ignoring him, Peter sneered: "Well, it is obviously Trimonite if _I_ am being called down. What about you, though? I don't see why you're needed."

"I'm more important than you think I am, mate," Kano snapped, both of his eyes narrowing at him like a hawk. "And I much more useful than some rich little tosser."

"Yes," Peter smiled pompously. "Every operation needs _expendable_ grunts. Especially ones that are so easily manipulated by something as simple as money."

"I'd watch my back if I were you—"

"Or what?" Peter interrupted. "You'll put a knife in it? How cliché."

The smuggler pulled out one of the large knives that he kept close by and with a swift flick of his wrist, twirled it until the blade came up to his neck which he used as a makeshift barber's razor.

"Nah. Wouldn't waste any of _my_ knives on you, but I'm known for my creativity," the cartel leader warned darkly. The threat rolled off of Peter like water and instead turned his attention back to the sea. Thank God he could already see the outline of the island in the distance. Kano saw it as well and took that as his cue to leave, curling his lip at him as he retreated with a parting remark.

"Wonder if there's anythin' to eat around here," Kano looked at him intentionally. "Or if it already went over the side."

* * *

**Shang Tsung's Island**   
**Unknown Location**

Weyland had always found it ironic, and somewhat humorous, how dungeons, no matter what realm they were in, usually followed the same architectural design: dark, decrepit, offensive to the nose, and topped off with just a dash of hopelessness to complete the ambiance. Shang Tsung's dungeon on the island was no different, and as Peter's dark leather shoes splashed in the puddles of dirty water— he hoped it was water— he hoped that this was a quick appointment and worth his time.

The old, withered sorcerer turned his milky eye over his shoulder and looked at the young businessman. "You seem uncomfortable in these surroundings, Mr. Weyland."

Peter heard Kano snort behind him in disgust. The CEO raised a single arrogant eyebrow at the weapon's dealer before turning back to Tsung. "Not at all."

"That is good," Shang Tsung commented, a grin forming on his wrinkled face. "Because I feel you will be spending a lot of your time here. I would hate to see my business partners unable to get comfortable with their surroundings."

Weyland bridged his eyebrows at the sorcerer's back at the cryptic remark. He had always disliked the way the older man seemed to talk down to him, as if he was a child. Granted, he was new to the realm war, but in no way did he enjoy being treated like an ignorant tourist.

"Is there a reason you have brought me here, or is it just to waste my time with games?"

The red robed elder chuckled at his heated inquiry, causing Weyland's chest to tighten with anger before he answered: "On the contrary, I have _several_ reasons, and neither of them are as _wasteful_ as you think they may be."

Peter sneered. "We'll see."

Shang didn't say anything, but even with his back turned to him, Peter knew he had one of his grins on his face. Weyland decided to bite his lip for the rest of the voyage through the humid, stone prison. As they reached the lowest level of the dungeon, passing by skeletons cemented in the walls as if used for mortar for the stones, the young man could already hear soft wailing coming from the cells. As they passed by the dimly lit cells, Peter couldn't help but pinch his nose as he was hint with the foulest aroma of feces, urine, and body odor hit him. The torches on the wall provided little insight the cell occupants, and at first, Peter thought they were just skeletons until he saw the leathery skin and rags that hung off them.

Eventually, they rounded a corner and at the end of the hall, two guardsmen with the strange chessboard colored masks bowed their head and opened the door for their master and his guests.

When they entered the chamber, Peter was already surprised to see that it was occupied.

With both wrists chained to the wall by manacles, the alien head-hunter raised its tired head at its new visitors. The yellow eyes settled in the deep pocketed eye-sockets glared venomously as soon as he— Weyland assumed it was a male— saw Shang Tsung amongst them. It only seemed to focus on Shang for a moment; its mandibles flexing apart before closing slowly as if it was displaying an act of defiance. Unable to stand with its ankles also shackled to the floor by irons, Peter noticed that the large, black dreadlocks that imitated hair, seemed to grow bigger. They noticeably spread farther apart, giving him the illusion of a mane; the alien certainly reminded him of a caged lion ready to sink its teeth into its kidnappers. The small dark spines above the brow bone narrowed down at them— glaring— as if waiting for them to speak.

It was the first time Weyland had seen one of them in the flesh and even though it was secured to the cell's wall, he still felt completely unsafe. It was badly hurt, no doubt from whatever fight had ended up with him as a prisoner. The color of the fluorescent blood almost hurt his eyes looking at it, but the strange green color that seeped angrily from the wounds on its crested head and muscled legs, arms and torso was compelling. It was also the first time he had seen one of these creatures without its mask, and he wished that Shang would have left it on. The crab-like lower mandibles spread apart as its small eyes towards the human. It lowered its head at the younger man, as if it could sense his fear, and lifted on of its top mandibles at him while the other ones remained stationary. Funny, Peter could have sworn it was sneering at him.

Under the blood, in the middle of the beige forehead, Weyland thought he caught the sight of something. Scars of lines that while not connected, resembled a pitchfork with the prongs spread wider apart…

The Predator seemed to notice he was staring at it, and raised its chin up at him; as if displaying something of pride. Although the creature was no doubt a brute, Peter couldn't help but sense the incredible intelligence it seemed to have. For a moment, it made him consider it as something human and remarkable, instead of a savage beast.

The memory of his father sprang up and the knowledge that his death was the result of an encounter with one of these hunters. His curiosity was replaced with hatred and Peter caught himself narrowing his eyes at it. He may not have loved his father the way most son's were supposed to, but he still loved him.

"Our friend here made the mistake of trespassing," Shang Tsung explained. The curve of a smile lifted at the corner of his mouth, and added: "It seemed we had bait all this time without knowing about it."

Kano chuckled as if laughing at the Predator's gullibility. "Who was he huntin'?

"Prince Goro," Shang answered.

Kano barked out a laugh, slapped his knee and looked at the alien. "What's wrong, chump? The big four-arm lug too much for you to handle, eh?"

The Australian continued laughing, while Weyland and Shang Tsung didn't say anything, and instead stared at the hunter. Of course, the young man knew about the Shokan and was thankful he never had the opportunity to meet him, but from the rumors he had heard about the Mortal Kombat champion, he would have to say the Predator got off easy. The fierce, golden eyes darted to Weyland for the moment, looking at him with a strange acuteness that filled the CEO with even greater distrust. It was if it knew _exactly_ what they were saying.

"Is that the only reason you called us here?" Weyland questioned the sorcerer, his eyes never leaving the muscular reptilian bipod.

"No, not the only reason, Mr. Weyland," Tsung informed. The older man placed his hands behind his back as he walked towards the injured alien. Its talon-clawed hands curled into fists as it rattled a clicking sound at him as if a warning to step away from him.

The sorcerer produced a toothy grin as he looked at both Kano and Weyland. "We have also located the ship it used to get here. With its ship, I believe you now have plenty of the materials you need to start building the Cyber Lin Kuei."

* * *

**A/N:** So, while I was re-watching AVP for research for this story, I never really understood why Stafford and his mercenaries brought guns on a research expedition, other than they were mercenaries. That was when the idea of making them an OWLF team (Other World Lifeforms Taskforce) seemed doable. The OWLF team idea was taken from Predator 2 and were the team of government mercenaries that were hunting the City Predator in 1997 in the movie.

This was my first time writing Shang, so I hope I did ok with him. Same goes with Kano, haven't written him for awhile. This chapter takes place before the MK reboot 

Having Yutani be tied with the military was from AVP: R. She had the brief cameo at the end when Colonel Stevens, who I believe is SF, finds and gives her the Predator's plasma canon they find in Gunnison in 2007 (but that happens later). I wanted to give her more to do in this story since her small moment intrigued me, and hopefully, I was able to depict the character in a way that is believable.

Peter Weyland, although in the Prometheus timeline where Charles doesn't exist, I took liberties with and made him Charle's son.

Trimonite is a taken from Tim Lebbon's AVP novels.

So with those little tidbits in mind, hopefully, its kind of clear where this story will be going with just enough ambiguousness to keep it exciting. :D And yes, that Predator that was captured was the same one from chapter 1. You'll be seeing him a lot in the story.

Hope you enjoyed the second chapter, leave me a comment to tell me thoughts, thank you all for reading and as always, see you next chapter. :D

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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3  
The Prisoner**

* * *

**2011  
** **Shang Tsung's Flesh Pits**

It was strange the variety of company General Kotal found in Shang Tsung's flesh pits, but only one unwilling participant in the sorcerer's experiments drew his attention more than the rest. Only because he could not identify it, and yet, felt as if he knew it.

As Buluc, he had once heard tales, albeit more in resemblance to ghost stories, about a feared God of the Hunt; one who seldom showed any mercy to those brave enough to challenge him. It stalked other hunters, and the people believed it only manifested when there was a worthy quarry to test; one earned of its attention. Many did not survive if challenged by the revered God, but those who did, were badged with honor. There had been a name for it: Mixcoatl. He confessed it had been long forgotten from his memory since he had heard it in his youth. Kotal had tried to seek him once, but he never did find it — nor any trace of its existence at all. In retrospect, his hunt for it had been sporadic and fueled only by mild curiosity. Many argued that they still lurked in the jungle, while other priests declared they had moved on; choosing another worthy people. Leaving Kotal left attesting that their God of the Hunt was a remnant of the past and nothing more; like hieroglyphics in an old tomb. Leaving him to neither agree or disagree about the validity of its existence. Now he wondered if he had found it at last.

The massive humanoid paced his cell with as much indignation that the Osh-tekk himself felt. Although limping, fluorescent green blood dripping from knife wounds marked in random points along his thighs and torso, it walked with refusal to rest. A caged animal; always investigating for an escape despite how impossible. The Osh-tekk felt rapport for the restless prisoner, for if Kotal had enough energy himself, he would had found himself mirroring his unlikely companion; walking heatedly about his cell like a battered jaguar.

However, he stayed against the wall; a hand covering his bleeding side as he surveyed his imprisoned comrade. The torch light, and the vines of green energy around their cell bars, barley illuminated its form to Kotal, but from what he could see was something he felt relation to. It carried a warrior's prowess, despite it was as emaciated as the Osh-tekk was, and had too much hubris to simply lay down and die like the rest of the unfortunate prisoners of Shang Tsung's island. Without warning, the creature bellowed in his cell, the four mandibles near its mouth flaring out as its fist simultaneously slammed into the wall with enough force for small pebbles to escape through cracks of the interlocked stones.

It huffed, turning its back toward him, and Kotal watched the mismatched dreadlocks of the creature's head lift from its massive head; almost as if on edge like a cat's hackles. It's broad shoulders fumed with enmity, each exhale more irritated than the next as it glared into the shadows of its holding cell.

The Osh-tekk had no idea how long the being had been in the flesh pits, subjugated to merciless experimentation, but however long, Kotal could sense its waning rebellion; it was both despondent and cantankerous about its current situation. The ex-general wondered if it had ever been captured prior, or if this was perhaps the first time it had ever found itself in a similar predicament.

Kotal suspected not. If so, he could only imagine the great shame for getting caught it must felt; akin to his own reaction of Shao Kahn's betrayal. Even without knowing his cellmate's origin or name, he shared its enmity.

"...T- tux a kaajal?" Kotal asked weakly; questioning where it was from and seeing if it was the ancient deity he thought it was. He didn't know why he couldn't shake the presumption, perhaps it was simply because it was the only one he could devote to, but he had to know for sure to quell his speculation.

The thick cords of hair whipped as it turned its head minutely over its shoulder to acknowledge him. Its yellow eyes, as bright as its blood, glowed through the darkness, across the hall and straight into Kotal, however the ex-Mayan god didn't sense that it understood him, but merely scolded him for trying to conjure a conversation. As if Kotal was too unworthy to address him.

"Where do you come from," The Osh-tekk translated, this time in the common tongue. The wound in his side complained, causing him to slightly hiss through his teeth.

The creature's eyes landed minutely on his covered hand as the skin of its large crested head dipped downward towards its eyes, the various small, dark quills where its brow-bone would be, flexing downward; as if it was narrowing its eyes at him to the best of its biological design could do. It was only then Kotal caught the insignia — scarred— into his forehead. A broken trident. He knew of such ceremonial marks — a symbol of a clan. It belonged somewhere... somewhere other than here.

"Where is your clan?" the Osh-tekk asked, tilting his heads towards him.

The creature stared for a moment, a baritone rattle emanating from its chest before it let out a chuff, turning its back to him once again to glare venomously at the wall once more.

Kotal let out a sigh, turning his own eyes to his cell walls, acknowledging that it didn't understand him and finally content at letting it be despite it didn't stifle his curiosity to discover its origins (what else was there to do in between bouts of healing.)

Perhaps another time. He had plenty of it to contemplate other theories as he remained in his cell; choosing to liberate his thoughts from the sour memory of betrayal from the hands of Shao Kahn.

The ex-General's free hand tightened into a fist.

Ambushed. Reduced from his position as general to nothing more than a future cadaver. Even weak, bloody, and with little hope since his imprisonment, Kotal remained vigilant that his unplanned visitation to the sorcerer's dungeon would not be endless, despite that the deplorable conditions amplified his misery. There was always the constant stench of rotting flesh to keep the prisoner's company, one that battled against the pungent damp aroma the dungeon walls offered. He was deep underground, and far away from the benevolent embrace of the sun he longed for. His dark cell kept him weak, in conjunction with the torture that stripped him of his sparred energy. It barely left him with any strength to stare at his cell mate across the hall from him as he noticed him given a glance out of the corner of his eye before reverting back to the stone floor.

Unbeknownst to the Osh-tekk, the Yautja fully understood what his fellow prisoner asked him, he just had no desire to answer him. Though able to carry a conversation with his cellmate that tried to engage him, he refused. There was nothing of interest it could offer him from what it observed briefly. Plus, the captured arbitrator was nowhere in a satisfactory mood.

Despite that the alien had no previous knowledge of this new realm, he was skilled in understanding their most dominant language; it was the same as the Ooman's home-world. He was well adapted, he had spent many seasons on Earth hunting game. When Yautja practiced their sport on something as sentient as oomans, they needed to understand what the prey was communicating. How it was reacting to be hunted so they could adjust accordingly; just as interpreting any call of any potential prey.

His only disdainful opinion was unlike other prey, oomans were well... simply put, they had too many ways to articulate the same thing. The hunters were not so unnecessary— they said what needed to say as plainly as could be said. There was no meaningless additional diction for anything that could be spoken in one or two words in their language that took 15 words in Ooman.

It was that reason that many Youngbloods didn't usually bother trying to learn the language itself, but merely understanding their mannerisms. It was sufficient, but the older hunter would disagree that it was as effective. Oomans could convey their intentions clearly through their body language just fine, but could also be deceptive when they needed to be. Say one thing but mean quite the other, which is why he found it necessary to learn their abhorrent tongue. Besides, knowing how to toy with them by using their own language, at the correct time, made for great thrill.

It proved useful over these past years, trapped in the pit, and used. He knew what they wanted, and listened to their conversations when they thought he was ignorant, and unaware he was completely cognitive of what was going on around him. They were taking samples from him, much like his own clan had been doing for the past couple of cycles with other species they had been plucking from planets. Although he disagreed about the success of such experimentation — from either party — mainly for two similar, yet diverse reasons: it nothing more than meddling curiosity and there was nothing to learn.

However, it was the decree of the Elder, who had always had such a fascination with the process of hybridization among other prey they hunted, and wondered if it could be applied to Yautja as well: to create the perfect hunter by biologically rearranging their DNA.

The minute the he had heard the idea, immediately he despised it.

In his opinion, there was no better breed of hunter then they already were. They were the apex predator, dominant of all that crossed their path in every aspect: culture, technology and intelligence. So what was the point? He found it to be repugnant. To muddy their body with genes from other inferior species — only taking the best quality of each, but still inferior nonetheless.

Their energy should be devoted to their technology — better weapons, better travel — not some Yautja-cross species abomination. The enforcer knew he wasn't the only one in the tribe that felt the same. There had been others that objected, voicing the same disagreement, but had been outvoted by members of the clan leader's council.

Eventually it did reach the clan's ears, and most of the younger, more impetus Bloods seemed keen on enhancing their body. However the older Yautja, which included most of his fellow Arbitrators and a handful of the Elders — the same ones who worked hard for their status without the aid of enhancements — were not as thrilled about the idea.

 _Cheating._ If he recalled correctly, was what Arbitrator Mi'nq had told him when he asked for his opinion. He couldn't help but agree. What glory was there in climbing up the clan hierarchy if there was significant aid? He didn't need biological advancements to help clear a hive of kainde amedha with just his weapons and his other hunt brothers. He had seasons of skilled hunting, honing his techniques through trial and error to obtain the position of an enforcer. He had earned it through blood, strength and honoring the code of the hunt. So how much honor was there if there was no effort?

There had been dangerous talk before he had left — before sent to this relatively unknown realm to collect a worthy sample — of gathering enough members to formally object. He himself had contemplated it, but chose rather to go hunt than get involved in clan politics at that time. He wished he had the foresight to stay behind.

Find a worthy specimen. That had been his goal since leaving the clan ship, and he had underestimated his opponent — leading to his capture. Such a Youngblooded mistake — one that now fated him to rot in the cell. His demise had resulted in the same thing he was curious about, something that was a stark contrast to their archaic practices was their advancement in a science that had not been introduced to the Yautja.

For lack of a better term, magic.

The arbitrator had always been agnostic towards the theories of sorcery, despite its existence was spouted from the shamans of his clan. He never did voice his opinion — it was unwise to question a high-ranked Yautja — but never agreed it was real. His mind was acutely tailored to accepting what was practical— what could be explained.

What he witnessed in the flesh pits, he couldn't explain.

Nevertheless, it was hard to contradict that he didn't see similarities to what was being done to him. The new creatures he had stumbled upon in their realm were doing the same; pulling skin samples and taking his blood to hopefully accomplish the same goal. To engineer the ultimate creature that would be obedient to their command.

That was where their similarities ended; the accompanied torture that went along with his enslavement was something the Yautja wouldn't do. What was the point in damaging the product? His only conclusion, they were as barbaric as they were primitive.

It settled fine with him, he had dealt with worse.

His claw traced to the back of his head to one of his newly cut braid of hair, feeling his blood coagulating finally at its severed end. He had been surprised they let him keep most of his rank rings, but every tress that was removed, along with the ring it was attached to, was another demotion in his status; a malignant decimation of his pride. They would never grow back, resulting in scattered nubs along with his longer tresses. It was cosmetically undesirable, longer tresses were better.

There were too many skin samples taken to count, and his dark blotted skin usually grew back with haste after a cycle to molt, though the beige flesh that adorned his stomach and parts of his legs and arm, would be scarred; unworthy to join the rest of his healed battle wounds. Scars from hunts were prized, respected and the bigger the better. However, the small dashes from scalpels that littered his body were anything but admired.

The one thing that was taking time to regrow, were the sharp teeth that protruded from each mandible. They had taken two, from one lower and one upper fang, leaving him with one sharp side and one blunt set. Teeth always took long for them to regrow without healer intervention because they seldom came off except by brute trauma. They had pulled them with a pair of pillars, and that had been by far the worst treatment he had received.

Despite the loss of his rank rings, the molestation of his body for experimentation, and the sheer anger he felt, there was one thing that was by far the most unforgivable transgression — one he had no one to blame but himself.

His headed bowed, his eyes to the floor, while his mandibles flared silently.

_Dishonor._

He had broken the code by allowing himself to be captured by prey. No Yautja would ever allow such a despicable thing. It was weak and without virtue for a warrior race. He should have killed himself cycles ago, to wipe away such a disgrace, but he had no means to do so. He had no weapons, no bomb and his captors wouldn't let him die without interfering. There had been many times he had starved himself, cut his own throat with his claws, but they intervened, keeping him alive, since they still had use for him.

Now too much time had passed; his window to still retain his integrity faded. Now he could only be considered a nothing more than a renegade — a Bad Blood — and the only reprimand at that stage was to live in exile until he either found a way to reclaim his honor or another enforcer came to kill him.

But did they even suspect he was still alive?

_"Where is your clan?"_

The ex-arbitrator was somewhat surprised no one had come yet. Many Yautja went missing on hunts, but their cases were investigated and their ships and gear recovered if not already taken care of by the fallen hunter. But there had been no one, at least from what he had seen. Perhaps they had come, clandestine, and reported his status back to the clan. But it didn't sit right — they wouldn't have hesitated to kill him. Maybe they were simply on their way, or lastly they didn't care to come; their new desire for turning themselves into hybrids overtaking other priorities for now. The captured alien knew that it didn't matter which theory, he was still exiled. Left on his own with no chance at contacting the clan about his whereabouts.

He had heard they already had his ship — with sorcery on their side, it hadn't taken them long to locate it on the island. The Yautja knew what their next move would be, as they would have done the same with advanced technology, but to strip-mine it and weaponize it for their own means. Oomans were bloodsucking in such instances and would use every bit of his ship and his stolen weapons to manufacture something of their own design. So, his ship was as good as gone. He was trapped in their cursed lands until he was free. Perhaps that was why they didn't find him; there would be nothing for their another arbitrator to hone in on — especially in another wormhole.

Exile.

Left to die.

Or left to reclaim his honor.

Those were the only options left.

Either choice was not what he had imagined for himself when he had taken his somewhat new role in the clan. It had been a sought out position for some time. When it finally had been bestowed on him, he relished it; loving the way it sounded and how much status it had procured for him. The high respect from others in the clan, his choice of breeding rights, a position were his voice mattered to the council. It was what he worked since birth for.

The former enforcer growled low.

All of it _gone_ in an instance the moment he decided to try and gather a sample of the four-armed bipedal. The fight still as fresh as yesterday playing in his mind.

The arbitrator did not go down easy, it had been relentlessly brutal and bloody. He had just meant to capture him with his net, securing him enough to grab a blood sample and retain a scan of the creature for their scientists, but it had broken free the second he decloaked and got near it.

The first thing he recalled was the sheer strength of it and how its extra limbs had allowed it to surpass even his own. If not for the addition of the extra arms, he was adamant their strength would have been equaled. It had grabbed him, pinning his arms to his sides as the upper arms connected with bone-crushing strength into his head. The arbitrator remembered tasting blood so instantly in his face mask, and even with the metal covering his face, the brute's attacks nearly rendered him unconscious.

However, its slack loosened for a solitary moment, enough for the Yautja to pry his arm loose, unsheathe the blades in his gauntlets and stab under and through the monster's upper right arm. It grabbed him by the throat, picking him up without and effort and had tossed him into the stone wall. Bleeding, and wounded, its vigor never faltered — but neither did his. The alien enforcer was always the best with a combistick, many others preferred to utilize their cannons on hunts, but he found the kill to be more satisfactory the closer to the prey he was. However, he soon discovered the four-armed humanoid also was skilled in close-quarters combat. They parried, him with his spear — able to rip chunks of flesh with every jab towards it — and the beast countered with unparalleled aptitude for combat. He should have used his plasma gun.

The arbitrator had learned late in his imprisonment from eavesdropping that the opponent he had faced was a prince, a title given to the leader of their kind much similar to how the Yautja hierarchy worked. The better the fighter, the more revered you were in the clan. Though a good fighter, the Yautja was surpassed, and he quickly discovered that in time the more the fight carried on.

The arbitrator remembered the fight souring against him as soon as a fireball, conjured by sorcery, had hit him dead on in the chest, and catapulted him backwards. Before he even had the chance to recover, to extinguish the flames from his burning chest, it was upon him — lifting him and pummeling him in the air. He remembered fists coming down from the sky as it suspended him by its lower limbs, lifting him like nothing. His face mask cracked like an egg at one point, one of the many pieces of equipment that _wasn't_ supposed to break, had broken just by his fists alone.

Although on the precipice of losing consciousness, he remembered the beast's words to him. They were forever branded into his mind, and he recalled them with great discontent. In fact, he couldn't recall a time when an insult had made him bristle as much as Prince Goro's did.

_"You are not befitting of a warrior's death."_

His mandibles clicked angrily against each other, a low growl initiating from deep within him. The insult still carried enormous weight upon him cycles later. If you wanted to insult Yautja, you shot barbs at their skill, their livelihood. Their warrior culture was something they revered highly, no question about it. To demonetize it — to be called worthless by what he had considered lower than himself — was inescapably invective.

As the ex-arbitrator reflected, he understood why he had lost the fight as fast as he did.

His hubris.

It had been his own fault he had been bested.

_Disgraced._

There was no one to blame but himself, and he gladly welcome the chance to prove himself again; now that he was more humbled.

Whenever the chance to do so became his for the taking.

Suddenly, he heard the grinding of metal against the stone of his prison floor, and he turned to see the bars lower into the ground. The green energy keeping them in place suddenly flickering and disappearing.

Leaving his cage wide open.

The other prisoner, the one that tried to speak with him earlier, widened his eyes in disbelief as he struggled to climb to his feet. The Yautja sauntered towards the opening, its talons smoothing over the pads of his hands, as suspicion loomed. He cocked his head to the side, clicking rapidly as he peered outside his cell.

It was not just them — all the cells were open — and one by one, he watched different species clamor out. Also confused as to why they had been released.

He looked to the wounded prisoner, its glowing eyes searching silently for an answer.

It was another prisoner, a humanoid with a set of teeth that could rival the _kainde amedha's_ sharp needle like ones, that provided an explanation.

"The sorcerer must be dead. We are free."

The alien's eyes flickered its mandibles in regard before rapidly firing against each other in amusement.

It had been sorcery that had imprisoned him all these cycles and without it, their security crumbled away like grinding bones into dust. Insufficient.

However, it didn't matter how — he felt nothing but elation. After years of boiling distemper, he was finally free...

… and he would rip this realm apart in fiery recompense until he was satisfied and reclaimed his honor.

* * *

 **A/N:** The idea of the Yautja hybridization is taken from 2019's 'The Predator'. Its the same idea, but with another clan. My predator has nothing to do with Fugitive Predator's clan. This takes place in the middle of the 2011 reboot. We will stay in this for maybe another chapter or so before we jumped into MKX.


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter 4  
** **Poisoned Chess Pieces**

* * *

**2011**

When dealing with devils, Peter Weyland always thought he had the best handle on things. His egotistical nature always sought for the best outcome possible during negotiations. He was too smart to be taken advantage of. Too business savvy for shortcomings. And he would have succeeded in his deal, if not for one small detail that had been left out of his dealings with the Black Dragon and Shang Tsung.

The fate of the world he knew—his birthrealm— hung in the balance, the only thing stopping Earth from complete annihilation was the outcome of a fucking Kung Fu tournament.

It was so preposterous he recanted adamantly fighting acceptance of it when he first heard the truth. While he had been aware of the tournament's existence, that was all he had thought it was— nothing but an Olympics.

Instead, it was a tournament that decided the permission of conquest. Of all the archaic concepts! Not superior technology or intelligence, but an exhibition of hand to hand combat that was capricious in its outcomes. That did not sit well with him.

Peter slammed the shot of whiskey on the glass pane that served as his desk. Inadvertently, it caused Kano's satellite phone to move from the abrupt tremor. He always knew that deplorable man was a snake, but he would have thought he would have at least sided with his own realm. Evidently, he was wrong, and it was one of many follies the younger Weyland had done.

While he had gotten what he wanted—the Trimonite— he had also discovered he had not been involved in the endgame; the only ones in on the scheme being the Black Dragon and Shang Tsung. It sent biting bitterness through his already aggravated demeanor. Without him there would be no Cyber Lin Kuei! There would be no pawns on the chessboard for them to use at their disposal. Without him, they'd have nothing. No cannon fodder for their invasion—an invasion he hadn't been aware of until he saw the otherworldly demons on the television. Only this time, there had been no tournament to serve as prologue.

Another invasion—one proceeding the next. And all of this, because of a single tournament that Earthrealm had won in the first place. Outworld had retaliated after losing, despite the rules. And they had beaten them back. Now it was yet _another_ realm attempting colonization and razing.

Weyland tightened his fist, his knuckles turning white.

Shang Tsung had promised him a deterrent, much like Yutani had been trying to utilize through her own desire to scoop up Trimonite. However, the sinking ship that he was promised passage on had been nothing but a ghost ship; there never was a ship to get on to begin with. Just flat out deception. They cut him off as soon as they were done with him. All his employees at Borgia had been exterminated by the same machines they had manufactured and built. Now, the warehouse was nothing but a pile of smoldering ashes and the Cyber Lin Kuei had disappeared. The only bit of Trimonite he had left was from what was with him at his company. They had left him alone at Weyland Industries, leaving him on a stranded island while demons crawled over Earth.

But, perhaps it was not all lost.

Watching the city on fire beyond his penthouse window, the US military helping to wipe out the remaining creatures of the Netherrealm that had lingered behind, he found another opportunity. One that would erase all future invasions from any of the other realms. Because of Shang Tsung and Kano's betrayal, it had allowed the young CEO to see the bigger picture. To appreciate his own realm even more than he had originally, and in his own need to redeem himself, he would have revenge and Earth's solution to everlasting providence. He would be Earthrealm's _true_ defender now.

The man smoothed over a fallen patch of blonde hair that escaped from his usually gelled and proper mane, pulling it back to where it had fallen. He may have had a part in creating the Cyber Lin Kuei— using his resources and the Trimonite— but he still had his share. In return, he kept most of the material salvaged from the alien ship, and they had learned a great deal. Begrudgingly, most of those had been shared with the Black Dragon and Shang Tsung. It didn't matter, he was still smarter than any black-market thug or magician.

Interrealm travel—one that didn't involve magic—but science. The _superior_ method. And ironically enough, it had been the easiest part of his clandestine plan.

There was still one more thing he needed, and it was proving to be more difficult than locating Trimonite, much to his great disappointment. Peter Weyland wasn't known for his patience, but if he wanted to ensure that no realms would ever invade Earthrealm again, he would pour every resource he could to locate it. No matter how many times he would have to comb the ocean floor. No matter how much money he spent—and he had plenty to spare— he would have his prize. Something even more valuable than any of the puppets of the Cyber Lin Kuei or Yutani's stolen alien technology.

Peter Weyland poured himself another glass and brought the whiskey to his lips, observing the destruction and narrowing his eyes with malice.

No matter how long it took.

He would have redemption.

Then there would be no more need for frivolous tournaments or reason to fear other conquerors.

Yutani had her deterrents, so not why him? Except, unlike her, he wouldn't wait until the Vikings were on their shores to use it. He would do it as soon as he got it. No consequences and no remorse. He would bestow the same courtesy to the other realms they had shown them. He already knew the order of the list. Outworld would be first— their fiercest contender it seemed. The once reigning champion realm of Mortal Kombat that Peter would ensure would be wiped off the game-board entirely.

Weyland smiled darkly, swirling the amber liquid in his drink.

If they wanted to play games, then the disgruntled pawn would ensure all he could to return the most valuable piece back on the chessboard...

They would reclaim a stolen Queen.

* * *

**Lin Kuei Temple  
2020**

Kuai Liang remained detached, physically stoic on the outside, but as he gazed upon the open window to his room, and to the new addition that had been placed upon his meditation mat in plain sight, he felt contemptuous heat producing pressure inside his chest like a boiler. The perpetrator had long since fled, clearly their intentions not of an assassin, but a messenger. However, it was still unwelcomed, and he would have a word with his young Lin Kuei on patrol as soon as he was able.

The Grandmaster approached the black mat, the midnight mountain air swirling and blowing particles of snow from the open window and dusting the black cell phone and business card lightly. Next to it, was a more curious partner to the pair: a thumb drive with a 'Y' patterned on its side. The Cryomancer knew it was the most important of the three items, but it was the business card he picked up first.

He knew of the Yutani Corporation and had known it was what was printed on the front before he even got within range to see the lettering. The logo was meaningless, and he knew it was what was written on the back, was what his first instruction would be.

It was a simple word, a single syllable that was blunt yet commanding despite its four-lettered structure, and it made ice crawl over the top of the paper when he read it.

**CALL.**

Kuai Liang felt a tempered sigh leave him and he contemplated for several moments— denying the card's request— before he leaned down and picked up the phone; barely looking at the encrypted number already present and ready to be dialed.

The Cryomancer lifted it to his ear, registering two dial tones before it was answered. There was silence, before an elder woman's voice cut through the mute void.

"You are a difficult man to get a hold of, Sub-Zero."

Kuai Liang's eyes narrowed at the imperious, yet cool-toned, Japanese-accented woman. "It is _Grandmaster_ to those who do not know me. And being that we have never met, you will address me as such."

"Very well, Grandmaster Kuai Liang," consented the woman.

The Cryomancer reached for the window, shutting it closed before he turned his back to the mountains outside the glass. "How did you get into this temple?"

"The Lin Kuei are not the only adept warriors Earthrealm has to offer. My OWLF team is quite as skilled as yours if I dare to say," the voice replied, and Kuai Liang could feel her amused smile from the other side of the phone.

"Then perhaps I should welcome and extend an invitation to your _commendable_ warriors," the Cryomancer derided. "Though I have little doubt they would disappoint me once their skills are put against Lin Kuei tutelage."

The woman let out a slight bark of laughter. "Cool yourself, sir. I assure you they meant no harm or disrespect. My team and myself have a lot in common with yours, Sub-Zero: we are protectors of Earthrealm. We both want what is best. Sometimes it means undoing what damage its own children have done against it. Which is why I reach out to you— and never had to Oniro or Sektor before you. I never agreed with them. I always felt no amount of metal could replicate the mettle of man."

Kuai's hand tightened over the phone. "What is it that you want?"

"To protect Earthrealm, of course," she relayed. "I know you are looking for Sektor and his followers. In the thumb drive are useful tools for you to use at your convenience. The metal they have ben crafted with has a distinct signature that is unknown to most, in fact... there isn't anything on Earth quite like it."

"And why have you bestowed this to me instead of looking for them yourself?"

"I will not impede on your honor, Grandmaster. Your fight is with Sektor, and it is not mine to get between. I offer it to you freely and wish you the best."

The phone grew cold in the Cryomancer's hand, his powers icing over the device in agitation. "I am not to be played for a fool… Madam Yutani. There is a cost to this… _charity_."

The line remained mute, silence drifting between the two, before it was Yutani that broke it first. "I simply want the metal... to help assist the mettle of man in their endeavors."

Kuai Liang scoffed at the woman, his eyes narrowing at her simple, yet subtly assertive request. "And what makes you certain, I would honor my debt for this unrequested assistance?"

"Because we both know you are far more honorable and human than both Oniro and Sektor."

The Grandmaster sighed, and although the words meant to be complementary, uttered by Yutani with admiration, he scowled at her blatant blackmail masquerading hideously under dulcet phrases.

"Good-night, Grandmaster. Sleep warmly. It looks cold there…"

* * *

**Outworld**   
**Kuatan Jungle  
(unknown year)**

Acclimating to new environments was always easy, especially when the environment itself was so familiar and welcoming. As soon as the Yautja had found his way off the island, boarding one of the many vessels that the other prisoners of Shang Tsung's Flesh Pit had used to escape, he stayed hidden, killing those that had stumbled upon him in the ship, and taking their weapons for himself. He had never seen such biologically grown weapons; the boney extensions in their arms akin to Yautja _dah'kte_. But unlike the metal of Yautja wrist blades, their designs were weaker and inferior. He had little effort mowing through the horde on the ship with nothing but his claws and strength. By the time he was done, there was nobody left but him to drift aimlessly at sea.

The ex-arbitrator had endured the long journey on the junk ship by gradually healing and working towards his coveted physical strength. Gorging himself on meat from those he killed and making use of the tools they biologically possessed as well as what was scattered about the ship, although useless in the end. The single arm-blade would be satisfactory he supposed, just until he could find other weapons befitting of being yielded by a Yautja. He remembered searching the island and finding nothing of his before he departed. He hadn't expected to find anything, but he had hoped to. However, what had been more disappointing than not being able to find his weapons, was not being able to find the foul four-armed beast that paid him great insult.

It had been his goal now that he was trapped in this putrid realm: Find Prince Goro and claim his skull as a trophy.

That goal was made cycles ago…

Hanging high in the green canopy, the intertwined leaves and vines that matched his blotted skin— the only way to provide camouflage these days— he rumbled with annoyance; the sound akin to an echo spoken into an empty cannon's barrel.

He could never find the pauking wretch.

It was as if he had disappeared the moment his prison cell had opened. It wasn't from a lack of trying. He tried nearly _every_ day since the boat had floated up a tributary before getting stuck deep along a riverbank within the tropical jungle. The arbitrator had scoured the realm with limited technology, and in doing so, felt great humility when he discovered just how reliant on his tools he had become. He was forced to primitive tactics, using the colors of what was around him to blend his hulking form in the best he could.

It reminded him of a trial in his unBlooded youth. Him and two of his other young hunt brothers, had been placed on a remote planet with commendable game, and expected to survive for several of the planet's moon's rotations. They had been weaponless, so they were forced to forage—hunt and survive like their primitive Yautja ancestors and use what the environment and the game animals offered. It had been an exercise in resourcefulness and a lesson of how to not be so reliant on their technology, but also it was to prepare them for their most sacred trial: The Dark Hunt. Where they were expected to claim a _kainde amedha_ skull and finally become a Blooded member of the clan. The _kainde amedha_ were deadly—a good hunt— but no matter the rank in the clan, you needed a sharp, resourceful mind when hunting them.

However, this realm was far more difficult than the planet he had been dropped on in his youth, mainly because he was adamant of staying hidden, which proved difficult when he was on the hunt for the Shokan.

It was far more difficult to stay camouflaged in the sandy barren areas he had ventured to when the jungle yielded no clues to Goro's whereabouts and was forced to look elsewhere. This realm provided great game, but he would not be satisfied until Goro was dead.

Still, it didn't mean he wasn't having fun killing those who had the misfortune of catching his attention. It was the only thing that brought him joy out of his contemptable mood.

The Yautja eventually pulled back to the jungle when his presence began to be noticed more by natives in the desert, but he made one last stop in the capital city before his departure. It had been too tempting to resist, although he didn't particularly care for Populous-Hunting like other clans. Still, there was so much turmoil in the capitol he could smell in the air. However, he despised politics—especially other species' politics, and was only there for information even if the city was ripe with disquiet. Anxious prey made for entertainment; their reactions when he sliced into their flesh was nothing short of darkly humorous.

Even with the hooman-like population speaking non-stop, there was still no word of the Shokan, but at least he was able to gain back an asset of his from the palace armory. It had been fleeting curiosity—just to see if this meager realm had anything of interest in regard to weapons. He found they didn't, it seemed that their efforts towards less archaic weapons were relinquished for their sorcery. He didn't ponder too long when he had come across a stolen friend of his.

His combistick was amongst the weapons in the armory, and he felt something close to great insult to see a Yautja tool amongst such primitive weaponry; discarded like trash. But, at least he didn't have to rely on Tarkatan arm-blades after that moment. Although reunited with his favorite weapon, he still missed his mask and his wrist-blades—even the pelts he used to cloth himself with. The only hide that came close in toughness was that of a large aquatic lizard that slinked low to the ground and had an oval snout full of razor teeth; similar to the Ooman's crocodile yet far stronger and resilient.

The Yautja clicked his slender mandibles together at the thought of the large reptilian that once dominated the river channels of the jungle.

It had been good eating and a bountiful trophy.

Its hide was as tough as its bones, and he used the top mandible as chest plating with the upper jaw in front. Its teeth had been removed, imbedded, and utilized into a spiked club, the same one strapped to his back. The scapula of the skeleton served as shoulder and knee-pads while its tail ran along the ridge of his spine, serving as protection for the nerves in his vertebrae's, and ended in the scaled pelt that was used for covering. Its ribs, he sharpened into points and smoothed down the rounded edges until they formed into edges more akin to hunting daggers, while the rest of its ribs had been cut and formed into arm bracers, tied and secured on top of a leather pelt that encircled his forearms.

With his new strange armor, the only thing that was missing was a ceremonial hunting mask, but he forgo one despite he had the materials with the bottom mandible of the creatures mouth that was acceptable enough to create one. Perhaps him not having a Yautja mask was appropriate. It was only given to those that deserved it and he hadn't yet. He was still disgraced. Unblooded... _Ic'jit..._

An irate hiss escaped from his mouth, reprimanding himself for even considering calling himself a Bad Blood. He was nothing like those traitors. He still had honor even if he was disgraced. As soon as he had Goro's head, things would be different. As soon as he had the trophy, his next goal would be to leave this jungle. But that goal seemed to be far from reach. This realm had been nothing but purgatory; a never-ending cycle of wasted time that he should be using to regain his honor. At this point, the exiled arbitrator was forced to either wait patiently for any clue of the Shokan or pass the time by hunting unworthy game.

But there had been _some_ interesting development as of late.

Movement in the jungle had stirred its creatures away, but instead of following the pack, he stayed high above and observed the camp of Tarkatans below. The ex-enforcer observed them quietly for now, learning of his new targeted prey with only mild interest since they were nothing but food and meager trophies. Still, despite the lack of importance they possessed, he would still kill them and take pleasure in the hunt just like any other Yautja would.

Currently, he ran the pad of his thumb against his other fingers in boredom, the edged nail of his talon tracing along the pads of the fingers as he listened. There was nothing of note that they said, speaking in their language of what was needed to set up camp before it was set to move on in the next few days.

Despite his revulsion for them, the Tarkatan language was like his own. The distinct formation of their mouths, Yautja and Tarkatan, made it impossible to make lighter, more airy sounds Oomans were adapt at making. Although Yautja were more baritone, the languages were rough and coarse and uttered as though grated against stone on the way out. The only difference being that Tarkatans spoke with an ever-present snarl accented in their words. The easy understandability of their language was nothing to boast about though— an Unblooded Pup could understand their language with ease. He had learned it quickly, finding it refreshingly more acceptable than deciphering Ooman, since they were as blunt to the point as Yautja were. However, it didn't mean the arbitrator paid them any respect.

The arbitrator chuffed, his tresses whipping to the sides, as he regarded them with bored irritation.

They were just... so _stupid_.

Delightfully feral and eager to fight, but stupid.

Still, the fight they would provide was nothing that warranted his departure from his perch as he soaked up the sun's heat.

A snarling feminine voice cut through his thoughts and he gazed down through the trees to find its source. Below him, he found the form of an Ooman female, one clad in moderate but still promiscuous leather coverings and with twin forked knives strapped to her back, barking heatedly at another female. The taller female, who strangely, registered hotter in his vision than the other one, seemed to try and sway her, uttering complacent suggestions to her. He could pick up their dialogue as he focused his attention below form the heavily leafed jungle canopy.

"... my Kahnum, can we even trust him? Let Rain and myself carry it out. We can kill Ko'atal _easily_."

"It is already done Tanya," the other flared impatiently. "I am not paying him _just_ to kill Kotal! I paid him well for the amulet, and I will HAVE it!"

The other female shook her head. "You should have not let Rain persuade you so easily. It cannot simply be wielded so—"

"Do NOT speak down of my decisions or I will have your head! It is final. Kano will be here soon and then we shall proceed as planned!" the female retorted sharply, her talon like fingers curled towards the other as if preparing to rip out her throat. Her accomplice said nothing, consenting silently although he noticed her body temperature rise quickly before dissipating.

However, the hunter didn't care about what it was they were talking about as soon as he heard them utter a distinctly familiar and abhorrent name.

Kano.

His eyes turned sharply towards them as soon as he heard the Ooman's name. Like Prince Goro, he had memorized the man's name; it was branded into the Yauta's mind. He had plenty of opportunities to learn it well when the man had spared time to visit him in Shang Tsung's Flesh Pits. Partaking in torturing him during bouts of boredom on the island.

The arbitrator's hands tightened into tight balls, anger flaring through his veins like sharp electrical currents; making his whole body tense at the image of the human's gloating, malignant glee as he had ran his blade through his flesh. Mocking and deriding him as he carved into his hide with brutal precision and fiendish delight.

Kano had enjoyed their sessions—he had told him verbally many times— calling them 'Play Dates.' As if inflicting torture had been nothing short of an enjoyable game. He was despicable and had no honor; the closest Ooman equivalent to a _Bad Blood_ if he ever saw one. Also, to make matters worse, he had used his own weapons to dig into his flesh. Particularly using his wrist blades the most.

_The man chuckled as the blades expanded out the sheathe, the gauntlet that was barely adequate to fit his arm sagging slightly forward. Kano gazed upon him on strapped to the table, unable to move while his red cybernetic eye gleamed like firelight along the surface of the metal. Sweeping the artificial crimson color along its length, before he turned back to him with a cruel grin._

_"Oh... I think I'll be keepin' these for meself, chump."_

The hunter's body rose, his breath hot as it entered and exited his lungs with every scornful exhale as he recalled the hated memory. The talons of his left hand grasped over the spot of skin above his knee, his claws dragging over the two symmetrical lines of scar tissue from where Kano had plunged his own blades into his leg.

The arbitrator stood, forgetting about the Tarkatan camp below and instead focused on a new hunt.

Nimbly, he raced along the tree branches; leaping to other neighbored trees with agile balance and strength while his yellow eyes swept over the jungle, its brows narrowed as it searched along every crevice, looking for the aforementioned Ooman.

Finally, after being denied a semblance of promise for retribution of his annihilated honor, would he have something of a prize to make up for all of his patience. His combistick was still his preferred fighting tool, but if there was a chance of even reclaiming his other items, he was going to take it.

The arbitrator's talons and feet dug into the side of a tree as he used it to slow his descent, curling bark from the tree's flesh as he flexed his fingers inward and grappled into the bark— halting him suddenly as he leaned his body out away from his arm and braced leg. The Yautja, his eyesight laser-focused, immediately locked on movement below on the jungle floor. His mandibles click in rapid alternating staccato taps against each other as he let out a warble from his chest; anticipation coursing through him as he made out several Ooman forms below...

... and one very, VERY familiar one.

Kano led the pack, pushing through water-soaked leaves of the overgrown jungle ferns, several kilometers west near a roaring waterfall. His thick-accented voice carried to his men behind him, barely audible over the thunderous cascade of water over the cliffside.

They marched around the bottom, where the falls met the river once again, and looked for a way to cross to the other side. There were only five of them accompanying him, and on any other day if he were hunting on the Ooman's home world, he would have viewed them as acceptable trophies to hunt and toy with. Now, they were just easily breakable barriers that he would run through easily.

They hadn't noticed him yet, although he was purposely in plain sight for them— leaning out from a tree by the top of the waterfall's edge—and remaining as hushed and still as if he was growth of the very tree he was clung to. He wanted them to stumble upon them… it would produce the expected reaction he was looking for…

…the same one whenever prey found out it had stepped on the feet of the very predator it had been trying to avoid.

It didn't take them long, even with their leader pointing a large knife towards the accumulation of rocks that could serve as stepping stones, until one of his men's eyes spotted him and bugged wide in alarm before raising his gun towards him.

"What the fuc— Over there!"

The men's reactions to their accomplice's shout was as instant as if they had been cracked by a whip, and they turned, spotted him and fired.

The Yautja narrowed its eyes with callous delight, before it lurched to the side, using the muscles of his calf to push off and his claws as hooks to disappear behind the tree and let the bullets pummel into its bark. He scaled up the tree effortlessly, using only his hands and the pads of his feet, while splintered wood scraped against his hide but feeling as airless as whispers against his skin. They continued shooting at him, gunfire cracking through the tranquility of the jungle and causing birds and monkeys to scramble away; adding more movement and providing him more camouflage in the process as he got near the top of the canopy and disappeared from view completely.

They continued to fire at the tree, trying to hit him, despite the dense vegetation blindfolded the hunter from view. He leapt from the tree to another and jumped down to descending limbs of other trees until he hit the ground— far from the ledge of the waterfall just enough to fall out of their view. Not as if they were focused on the ledge…

They still fired stupidly at the same tree they first spotted him in; as if they assumed he was still there. The Yautja swam, diving under the river and fighting against the current to get across. As soon as his feet hit the soil on the other side of the river, he ran along the jungle floor of the higher elevation. Going deeper into the jungle on the other side before he found an acceptable tree below—near the river where they were.

He jumped from the cliff-face, his hand grasping a thick vine on the way down and using it to swing with precision to the limb of the tree. The arbitrator noticed the sound of their gunfire start to taper off, the men running out of bullets and forced to reload, as he swiftly made his way to the tree, he wanted...

Right above them with a perfect space of air he could drop down into the middle of their circle. The Yautja watched below, his hand grasping the shaft of his combistick and watched Kano's men search at eye level and not even bothering to look right above them in the tree.

The hunter watched them from below; frenzied and startled by his sudden unwelcome appearance on their mission. Kano, on the other hand, didn't seem as intimidated by him, only agitated that their jungle trek had been interrupted.

Perhaps it was because, he was the only one that recognized him.

"Is that you, ole' Chump?" called the cybernetic human to him, addressing the arbitrator despite not knowing where he was. His artificial eye scanned through the jungle growth, peering through the thick maze of trees as he continued to speak to him and ignoring the apprehensive and confused countenances of his men.

"I was wonderin' what happened to you since Shang's island," Kano began, a wicked smirk growing as he continued. "Went back and you had already scurried off. That wassint nice, mate. Skipping out on our _date_."

The Yautja glowered, an irate chuff escaping from his lungs as he watched the Black Dragon leader lift his knife to his throat, shaving through the stubble of his growth with a sardonic low chuckle. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about them, champ. Ya know… I've missed our _fun_ little sessions."

The hunter's fist tightened around his combistick, though he did not unsheathe it just yet... not yet.

Kano lifted his left arm, presenting the Yautja gauntlet to the air as he walked in a purposely taunting circle, presenting it to him like a trophy to an audience at an arena. "Bet you haven't _forgotten_ this little ripper, mate. Gotta say… not that impressed. Though it's done some good guttin' here and now."

The Yautja raised his chin as his shoulders sagged with fiery agitation seeing his weapon on the inferior human's wrist; he was unworthy to even look at it, let alone wield it. He knew that Kano would have it (the man liked to collect trophies as much as he did) but still, seeing it on him produced an inferno inside the Yautja's chest at the sight. He would kill him slow.

The hunter noticed the human's cybernetic eye shift to different colors, though barely discernable in his eyesight, it was the automated _'swoosh'_ that caught his attention; difficult to pick up with Ooman ears but easy enough for Yautja's keener senses. It was similar to when the hunter activated the small triggers inside of his mask with his mandibles, flickering between modes for better vision. It was only when the Yautja noticed his eye land on his tree and roam his eyes up and stopped on the general area where he was crouched on the branch, did he realize Kano had heat sensors switched on him.

Kano's regular eye slanted with cruel elation, a smile on his face as his metallic orb illuminated hotter. "Hello Sport."

The hunter let out a roar, dropping from the branch before Kano's eyebeam obliterated the wood to pieces, and expanded his spear before his feet hit the ground.

The hunter tucked and rolled, avoiding bullets, and drove the tip of his spear into the nearest human in front of him as he unfolded back up to his feet. The human let out a strained, wet caterwaul, his hands grasping around the shaft that ran him through before it was pulled from him when the Yautja flicked the switch on the side and retracted it from his body.

Bullets raced for him, and the hunter leaned to the side out of the way from the human on his right, while the arbitrator's hand shot out, grabbed the man around the ankle and swept him from his feet. The mercenary let out a startled groan, his body cartwheeling through the air, until it landed harshly to the ground. The second the human hit the ground, the Yautja kicked into the man's stomach, catapulting him into another as a pained yowl escaped from his throat, and knocking the wind out of both of them when they collided into each other.

The Yautja expanded his spear and thrust it backwards— into the torso of another man that charged at him with a knife. The weapon, held inside the man's palm over his head, dropped and fell towards the jungle floor— before the hunter grabbed it and with expert aim, sailed it into the man aiming his reloaded weapon on him. The man's eyes crossed, the knife imbedded into his skull as a trail of blood ran down the middle, before he fell face forward; dead before he hit the ground.

The last two men recovered, but before they could climb to their feet, the arbitrator lifted them by their throats. They garbled and flailed in the air, their palms around his wrists as he cut air from their lungs while he suspended them malignant mirth towards their leader.

Kano waited off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, and watching with complacent yet irritated interest as the hunter ran through his men like nothing; simply waiting till he killed them until the Yautja turned his attention to him.

The Yautja's patience fled, and with a narrow of his eyes, he squeezed his hands simultaneously and crushed their necks. Their bones crunched beneath his palms, and the sound like twigs snapping, before he felt them go tense before slack. With an arrogant toss, he flung both of Kano's men at his feet, his lower mandibles flaring.

The Black Dragon leader uncrossed his arms and gave a mocking display of soundless applause towards him. "Bravo."

The man's eyes darkened, his smile broadening wickedly as he unsheathed the Yautja wrist-blades. The arbitrator's back arched, a low thrill coming from his mouth as his spear expanded once more; the hunter ready to barrel into the fight on the human's go.

"But let's see if you're still feeling cocky with your own knives in your gut, mate."

The hunter charged with a roar, racing towards the human like a charging bull, but was knocked on his back—his chest on fire— when Kano's red eye shot a laser and hit him square in the chest. Luckily, the bone armor took the brunt of the blazing heat, but as a result, cracked and broke apart.

The Yautja kipped up and rolled out of trajectory of another blast, bone fragments raining down; leaving his chest bare. The enforcer rose to his feet and threw the spear towards the human, but with a yell the man rolled out of the way and missed him— barely escaping by inches. The combistick hit a rock and bounced, sailing upwards from the connection of steal and stone and eventually rained down near the riverbank.

Kano charged, the arm blades swinging for the larger form, and it made the arbitrator almost laugh. Although Kano's movement were controlled and calculated, he did not possess the finesse for such an alien weapon. Therefore, the Yautja was able to dodge and strike the man easily; clenched fists driving into the man's hard stomach and folding him over from the force alone. The hunter grabbed the top of the man's wrist, stepped along the side, and drove his opposite elbow into the back of the man's neck. Kano let out a pained yowl, falling forward while the alien let him go. The arbitrator marched for him, grabbing the man by his shoulders…

…And let out a roar of pain when an unknown knife that expanded from one of his elbows sank into the side of his stomach; a flesh wound, barely an inch away from the open air, but with enough leverage to keep the Yautja still. Kano pulled away to his right, cutting his knife through flesh and opening up a vertical wound on the hunter's side, before he rolled over and gave the alien a kick into the same wound.

The hunter roared in pain, one of his hands instantly moving to cover over his bleeding side, before his slanted, angry eyes fixed on the man pulling himself up to his knees; a knife from his boot coming up along with him.

The human confronted with the knife, slicing through the air for his steel to bury into Yautja flesh, as the ex-elite blocked the man's onslaught with the back of his forearms while blood spilled down the side of his torso and over his thigh. Kano nicked and slashed, but although injured, they both could tell who had the superior brute strength between them, and it became clearer to Kano the more the arbitrator was able to land more frequent punches to him. Kano had only known the Yautja when it had been strapped immobile to an examination table, unable to do anything, and never fully aware of its strength…

He was being educated…

The enforcer grabbed the man's wrists in his hands, and the man grunted, trying to get free. Kano let out a yowl of pain, the Yautja breaking the wrist of his non-gauntlet wielding arm, as he squeezed his palm.

The Black Dragon seethed, his teeth bared, before he rammed his head forward— his height only allowing the man to break his head against one of the Yautja's mandibles; snapping it. The alien headhunter barely flinched, even as his bottom left mandible hung crooked to the side at an unnatural angle. The enforcer flouted at the man before he gave him a brutal head-butt of his own. Kano's nose broke on impact from the alien's hard-crested skull and his head snapped back. Blood poured from the human's nose, running in twin streams over his mouth. Kano narrowed his eyes and spat blood at the Yautja; the fluid landing on the arbitrators face in splattered red pigments.

"Rack off," he scowled before he drove his foot up, unsheathed a knife in his boot, and sunk it in the Yautja's torso. The enforcer's head flew back, a loud bellow escaping from his flared mouth, before his eyes burned with hatred and he released his wrist to deliver a bone-crushing blow to the side of the man's face. The boot detached from the hunter's torso as Kano spiraled through the air before landing with a hard thud on the ground next to one of his dead soldiers. The hunter raised a hand and touched the new wound to his abdomen, his fingers stained with his own fluorescent blood, before he stalked over to the man angrily. Kano reached for one of the discarded machine guns, and before he could wrap his hand around it, the Yautja stomped on his already broken wrist and forearm— hard.

Kano let out a pained scream, the bones in his arm pulverized to splinters, and continued even as the enforcer twisted his foot and sunk it deeper on the man's arm; making sure his bones grinded to dust. The arms dealer let out a frustrated yell, his arm reaching blindly for his leg. The hunter leaned forward grabbing the man's arm and stopping it in its path. With an uncaring pull, he ripped the gauntlet from the man's forearm.

Keeping the human stagnant beneath him, but knowing the beaten man was watching from below, the Yautja removed his makeshift bracer and discarded it before he returned the gauntlet back to its rightful place back on his arm. Deadly glee filled the enforcer's eyes as he flicked the blades out, the metal shining in the sunlight like a solar flare, before he eyed the human under him.

Kano faltered, fear filling him as he understood there was no way he was going to slink away from death this one time. The man lifted his relatively uninjured and free arm as he twisted his torso towards him, his eyes bugging wide in alarm at the alien's relentless vicious countenance.

"W-wait mate, you don't wanna kill me... we can be friends! You want weapons? I got plenty!"

The Yautja's top mandibles flickered up curtly as its eyes narrowed, its interpretation of a disgusted scowl, as he lifted his foot from the man's arm. Kano rolled instantly to his back, but before he could scramble away, the alien placed a foot to his throat and pressed hard on his windpipe. The arbitrator's chest let out a grunt.

"... pauking s'yuit-de _Pauk_..."

"W-what's that?" Kano breathed out hopefully, his voiced constricted to groaned words. "That mean—uughgh— you'll let me go?"

The Yautja's eyes grew dark as he leaned forward towards the human, causing the weight to shift and crush the man's throat more, earning a strained exhale from him.

"H'ko," the Yautja shook his head. "Fucking… pathetic… _Fuck_."

Kano paused, blinking as the Yautja spoke English to him with surprise. The arbitrator continued, the human's shocked demeanor causing his ego to flare. _"Your_ words... to _me_. Se'i? Remember _well_... from _Play Dates_."

The Yautja's foot suddenly left, only to be replaced with his hand wrapped around the man's throat. The hunter lifted him, the man's boots kicking the air under him. He noticed the man's cybernetic eye start to grow hot, preparing to fire and before it could do so, the ex-enforcer grappled and hand over the man's metallic eyepiece and pulled it with a vicious tug— ripping it completely from the man's eye-socket.

One of Kano's hands shot to his damaged eye, blood pooling and spilling from the torn eye as rapid as the waterfall behind them. The Yautja chuffed disgustingly at the cybernetic attachment before he tossed the bloody component to the side.

As he dangled the man in his arm, he noticed his skin began to pale, and his core body temperature began to drop, he carried him over towards the river's edge and dropped him like a sack of trash. The man coughed for air, blood still spilling from his head as it stained over his chest and covered his shoulders like a red shawl.

The Yautja approached him, the arm blades on his wrist shining wickedly, as he hovered over his body. Before he could begin carving the steel into his flesh, the arbitrator noticed something odd sticking out of the man's pocket; something circular and metallic in shape.

Curiosity beckoned him for a moment, and he crouched down over the man, his feet on each side of his torso and plucked it from Kano's pocket.

It was a metallic gold medallion with a green stone in its center, about the same size as a smart disk if not smaller. He flipped it over, studying its plain patterns and uninspired craftsmanship. Still, he felt a strange wave of electrical current flow from his fingertips and glide along the nerves of his body; rushing a conflicting euphoria over him. He wanted it… he wanted to keep it for himself. The amulet called like a magnet, fastening into his hand, as a whisper called to him to keep it for himself and use it.

Kano's remaining eye trained on it instantly and he rose a finger to him. "That's... that's worth a lot... let me go and I'll let you have—"

The Yautja flung the gold piece from his hand, sailing it into the water and letting it sink without regard to the bottom of the jungle river. Kano let out a stunned and angry guffaw, his eye fixed on where the amulet had disappeared.

"Do you know what tha' was you bloody stupid wank—"

The Yautja's hand clasped around the mouth of the Black Dragon leader, pushing his face back into the ground with cruel weight, before he brought the tips of his wrist-blades to the column of his throat.

"H'ko... and do not care... only want... to hear your scream... as I skin you _slow_ and... **_alive_**..."

The exiled arbitrator did just that: taking his revenge against the wretchedly sadistic human he suffered countless hours of torture by cycles ago. Showing the Ooman the same impassive courtesy he had shown him in Shang Tsung's Flesh Pits...

Not knowing he had altered the course of history with a simple flick of his wrist towards the river…

* * *

**Antarctica  
2035**

Twenty-four years…

Twenty-four long… _grueling_ … financially crippling… _fucking_ years…

But it had all been _so_ goddamn worth it.

She was more beautiful than Peter could ever imagine. Even cased in ice, and frozen in a malignant and pained screamed.

The Xenomorph Queen was more regal than any monarch and more powerful than any tyrant he had ever seen before, more powerful than any crippling devastation man could invent.

She was the organic embodiment of death, and as he stared at her still frozen form, entombed inside a block of ice waiting to be unthawed in the belly of the icebreaker _Brigit's_ research facility, he felt genuine, but welcome fear shiver through him.

She was magnificent… she could tear apart all the realms just by herself. However, he needed her kin, and he knew precautions would have to be made to control such a ruthless matriarch. Although the red-painted icebreaker was a replica of every other around Antarctica's shores, this one was equipped with the finest tools that Weyland Industries could possess.

His company had flourished over the past two decades, but none of his endeavors were as revered to him as the alien. She was the result of perseverance—determination— and, ironically the answer to Earthrealm's protection even if she could also destroy his birthrealm without thought or care. Yutani could have her stolen head-hunter toys and scraps… he had the real, _breathing_ deterrent.

Weyland watched from the walkway above, mechanics and scientists flittering away like ants under his command to get the preparation room set up. Installing safeguards, creating chains, and working overtime on the holographic shield generator that would serve as the Queen's holding cell as she produced the eggs needed. Peter only needed a few… one for each realm…

After that, there was no need for her to lay anymore. But he wouldn't kill her, just neuter her if they were able to. There was still so much to learn of the species. So much knowledge that could be harvested…

So much that could be weaponized into biological firepower.

Weyland's eyes pulled away from the Queen, as a feminine grunt echoed through the ship below. The CEO exhaled heatedly through his nose as he looked down at his secretary, Donna Logan's battered form.

Even the triumph of acquiring the Queen didn't settle his fired nerves over his once thought of trusted assistant.

She had been nothing but a sheep wearing the pelt of a wolf; her wool bearing the logo of Yutani.

One of his paid mercenaries gave her a kick to the face, and she hollered out in pain as her now broken nose let out a red geyser.

The workers ignored the scene being displayed before them—purposely. Done so in front of them so they were aware of what rewards were acquired through such traitorous transgressions. Weyland sucked down the rest of his whiskey, flinging the glass over the railing of the walkway and listening to the glass shatter below, as he began his slow descent down the stairs; heading towards the group of five male bodyguards hovered over her whimpering form.

Weyland should have known years ago, when certain files on the Cyber Lin Kuei had been copied and their replicas disappeared. In the back of his mind he had always suspected her; the much too naïve secretary willing to sleep with him. Nothing but an act it seemed, for she was really in bed with his rival. He didn't like Yutani knowing what he had done, and he suspected it would come back to him one day. But, he had never known who it was for sure, until tonight.

Logan had slipped though, trying to relay information on the back of the ship, before she had finally been caught by his hired help—disgruntled ex-Black Dragon now paid well by him— and she had been interrogated with bloody brutality.

As he reached the bottom, his remorseless eyes looking upon the beaten woman without regard, his attention was stolen by one of his scientists letting them know the holographic cage was ready to go and for the Xenomorph Queen.

Peter looked down at the woman and then back to the obsidian alien in the ice; watching with mirth as rivets of water pooled along the sides as the heaters melted her gradually. The CEO smirked, noting that it wouldn't be long till she was awake…

And most likely very, VERY, unhappy.

"Her majesty will be quite famished coming out of the ice…she'll need a proper meal to gain her strength back."

Donna shivered at him, blood running over her mouth as her eyes bugged wide in alarm. Peter nodded to his men.

"Throw her in the cage."

The secretary let out a scream, fighting and flailing as the men grasped her around the arms and legs, carrying her over to the confinement. Her screams echoed throughout the hull of the ship, making some of the Weyland employees grimace with regret. Donna didn't stop screaming, even after being thrown into the cage and the holographic wall silenced her whines and the sound of her beating fists against the electric barrier.

It went on for hours, the woman crying and shouting silently on the other side of the cage…

…until the Xenomorph Queen finally thawed and killed her instantly.

But that was just and appetizer.

The real buffet would commence in Outworld.

"Let's begin."

* * *

**A/N:** Xenomorph Queen is taken from AVPs aftermath, preserved for my own _MKX_ Aftermath. Feel free to leave a comment, they're free and appreciated always, and see you next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5  
Will-o'-the-Wisp**

* * *

**Yutani Corporation**   
**Osaka, Japan**

Madam Yutani would be considered an insomniac to most CEOs, who were in turn, were also considered insomniacs by normal western standards. However, she didn't consider herself such a person and neither were her staff. They worked hard, forgoing their social life and their families for the better of the company's endeavors. It was why her cybernetics company was so commendable and the best in the world.

Well, next to Weyland's.

Unlike Weyland Industries, though, who pushed for excellence with little reward for his staff, Yutani was the opposite. Though she didn't put up with incompetence, she had an admiration for those who pushed along an uphill battle. She did often wonder, if she were to reveal her secret to her company, or to her enemy, if her employees would still work as hard. Or if she would have a company at all.

Her desk, a polished cherry wood that cost more than most home mortgages, held an item resting against the wood.

A small medallion, made of Outworld metal, and with a dragon emblem in its center, and it was the only thing from her home realm she still possessed.

Unbeknownst to all, except to a few she deemed trustworthy, nobody knew she was born an Outworlder. Growing up during Shao Kahn's rule, she, like so many others, had migrated to Earthrealm in hopes for a better life and future. Over the past few centuries, she grew to enjoy Earthrealm more, and devoted her life to ensuring the safety of the realm.

She had many businesses during her lifetime, but it was her cybernetics corporation that was her greatest accomplishment. The military contracts with the United States Special Forces, outfitting them over the years with the best gear her team could create, had been her best attribute to aiding Earthrealm. It was ironic, the turn of events, after spending so many years defending Earthrealm from Outworld, she was now forced to consider doing the opposite in this moment.

Her eyes traveled across the smooth surface of the desk, landing on the transcript on the last bit of exchange between OWLF and Donna Logan. Yutani mourned Donna— she had been a good asset over the years, and if not for her, Yutani would have no idea what Peter had been up to all this time.

Though she _did_ have her suspicions over the years...

The Outworld woman's eyes traced over her office; a modern and simplistic business aesthetic in comparison to Weyland's sleek and posh office. Her eyes eventually landed on the glass case along the far wall.

Held up on a mantle, was a stone carving with two alien figures in Aztec-esque design battling between each other on the decorative mosaic. Recovered from an Aztec treasure room, it was the last known hieroglyphic evidence that gave testament into the Yautja/human past.

Behind the case, lining the wall and often mistaken by other businesspeople during meetings as ancient relics from Mesoamerica, were the Yautja spears and ceremonial bio-masks also recovered from that same treasure room. There was only one item that wasn't recovered from the expedition—one of many she paid for.

Alexa Woods' makeshift Xeno-spear— constructed by the Yautja that aided her in the pyramid—was also in the case. Woods had given it to her after the woman had related the tale of what happened to the pyramid.

" _Too many bad memories. But, someone should have it for safekeeping."_

They were acquaintances, and talked often, forming an unlikely friendship after Yutani had expressed to Woods her desire to keep the planet 'alien free'. After the events of 2018, and discovering that the Yautja were planning on cultivating the planet, she feared the possibility of invasion from them. So, instead of research, they pushed back. Killing or capturing any headhunters that dared come to Earth. If the Fugitive Predator — a name coined by the elder McKenna— thought it necessary to bring them such advanced weaponry as a deterrent, then they would take no chances. They were the enemy now.

Woods even agreed it was the right call. It had surprised her at first; Yutani would have assumed Woods would have some loyalty to them now that she was seen as one of them. But Alexa had also known they were still responsible for breeding and planting Xenos. If not for the Yautja, the Queen would have never been in the pyramid on Bouvetoya Island to begin with. So, Woods saw Yutani as a necessary evil. Alexa liked Yutani, but also trusted her about the same as Weyland. She couldn't say she blamed Alexa.

Seeing the deadly barb at the end of the spear shaft made her shiver at the thought of what Weyland had aboard the Brigit.

The female CEO still couldn't fathom the success of Weylands' horrific achievement. He had done the unimaginable and resurrected the Xenomorph Queen from her icy tomb. She had to admit, she would have applauded such determination— years he spent trying to do so apparently— if the Queen's revival wasn't potentially cataclysmically dangerous to everyone on this planet.

If the Yautja feared the Xenomorphs, then Yutani knew that he was playing with fire, and had little confidence he could control the Queen no matter how much technology he used to subdue her with.

She had misjudged his obsession for the destruction of Outworld at first, thinking it as nothing but an impossible folly, but to her surprise, he had the tools now to set out his plan. Now, the former Outworlder was left with a paradox on what to do with the situation.

Did she let him destroy her old realm to wipe an old enemy to her adopted realm off the map? Shao Kahn and Shinnok had nearly succeeded conquering Earthrealm just years ago…

Her hand smoothed over the raised grooves of the dragon's scales on the medallion.

Or did she choose to save it, even though the risk of war was adamant?

She was fully aware of the Outworld Civil War with what Colonel Stevens found out from his meetings with Secretary Blake (the men friendly acquaintances), and that Kotal Kahn was losing patience and resources; the ex-Kahnum displaying surprising resilience and slowly depleting him to the point of desperation.

If Mileena won, the Reiko Accords would be abolished—and Earthrealm would become under threat of conquest again.

Yutani sighed.

But, if she was to let Weyland release the wrath of the Xenomorphs on Outworld, she wouldn't have to worry about if Kotal Kahn won or lost.

There would be no Outworld to worry about at all…

However, it would still be millions dead if the Xenomorphs were released, opposed to a few thousand in regards if they engaged in a future interrealm war. Neither number was pleasant to think about, but the scale tipped towards an obvious side and solution after weighing both numbers out.

She had long ago arrived at her answer.

Weyland was not going to wait to find out the outcome of another realm's civil war. The eggs, Queen, or both would have been in her former realm already if not for her other spy's—the other one besides Logan— carried out a last-minute intervention on her orders. The aliens, like their Yautja enemies, posed a danger—to all realms. She knew Peter wouldn't be able to control the Queen, even if he foolishly thought he could.

They had to have control over both intergalactic and other-realm threats and when it came to the Xenomorphs, the only way to do so was to exterminate them.

Yutani knew what to do, but her thumb tapped the outside of the medallion rapidly in anxiety.

They had to send her back to the bottom of the ocean by sinking the ship.

Knowing, there wouldn't be any survivors.

Except for one if she had anything to say about it.

Yutani pocketed the medallion into her grey skirt pocket—she had spent more than enough time reminiscing about the realm it came from, and instead focused on her past in Earthrealm instead.

Her brown eyes, tired and red, landed on the photo on her desk that she had been trying all night to avoid.

Inside the silver metallic frame, stood her, as ever ageless as she was now, and a young dark-haired boy around the age of 12 next to her. She had traveled to Ireland to pick him up herself, although she conveyed more joy in the picture than the boy did. Understandably so, as the gothic-style building behind them in the faded picture read: _Miss Carr's Children's Home._

He had lost his parents at such a tough age.

Like her, once upon a time in Outworld, he was an orphan who had met their demise in suspicious circumstances. Both of them, the lone survivors. She had adopted many children since her migration from Outworld, and she had loved them all. They were all special—some more supernaturally than others.

Colin had been her favorite though. He was a spitfire of a kid, a child with countless possibilities for potential, but often she felt he squandered it. Doing the bare minimum of what she expected as both his mother and employer. Perhaps she was somewhat to blame. She was his legally adopted mother, but it was still a secret. He had remained in Ireland most of his life at his request, and she had respected it. Giving him everything he wanted under the care of her hired caregivers, but she was seldom able to visit him due to her work. He didn't even know of her true heritage, though he knew of the other realms, but sometimes, she felt she cared more about his birth realm than he did.

Regardless, he still contributed. Choosing to join Ireland's Army before OWLF (to appease her) instead of representing Earthrealm in the tournament as suggested. She shook her head, her eyes landing on an unlit candle on her desk.

So much wasted potential…

 _"Fire or no fire— I'll get shredded in minutes."_ he had objected. _"I'll stick with hunting the hunters. That is ironically safer."_

Lifting herself from her desk, the neon glare of Osaka's nightlife streaming in from the window and providing the only light inside the dark modern office besides the glow of the computer screen, Yutani made her way to the door.

Exiting out her office, emerging for the first time since yesterday, the businesswoman smiled lightly at the only other person still in the office at this time.

Her assistant, a middle-aged hermit in both demeanor and appearance, Toshi, slept upright in his chair in front of his still on monitor. His dark business attire was more wrinkled in comparison to her more tailored immaculate grey suit, and she respected that he had disobeyed her previous orders to go home.

The older woman's hand landed on his shoulder, stirring him awake. "You look tired," she acknowledged in Japanese; her tone more of a complimentary note.

He was—they both were. They were still waiting on word from Colonel Stevens. Her paid military puppet she put in charge of OWLF operations. She had no doubt he was assembling and waiting for clearance on the other side of the world.

It displeased the CEO immensely, but she didn't display it. Nobody knew Colin was adopted, not even his own OWLF fellow soldiers, but time was of the essence, and her son was running out of it. If she could safely extract him from the ship before they destroyed it, she would. However, there was international red-tape to hurdle, even in uninhabitable waters such as Antarctica and with a secret team.

Her smartwatch suddenly buzzed on her wrist, and she looked down…

Immediately, she stifled the fearful gasp that threatened to expose her to her assistant. The woman conveyed no fear—only forced stoic reticence—at the text that blinked across the screen, although on the inside, she felt gripped by anguish.

 **COL. STEVENS** :

_FIREFLY IN JAR._

_OWLF DENIED._

_I'm sorry, Yutani._

"Madam Yutani?"

The CEO pressed her lips tight together, black anger flashing in her eyes at the message. How dare he refuse something so important to her. He was _her_ agent, and she didn't put up with failure or excuses. Although, she couldn't get as upset as she wanted to. Yutani had a feeling this would have been the answer all along though she had hope against it. Colin knew the risks and so did she… they both knew the importance of quarantining the threat at whatever the cost. His capture wouldn't stop him from destroying the ship. It was why Stevens picked him to go. Colin could light fires without even being in the same room as the kindling.

Whatever the cost…

Her mind flashed back to the picture, the small Irish boy that she loved…

Her brow furrowed.

_No._

This was unacceptable.

She would still sink the damn ship and not lose her child to Weyland. Elder Gods be damned if she let Weyland take her son down with the ship as well.

Yutani downright refused to let this sit.

Her eyes, determined, shot to her assistant to bark out an order: "Call my pilots. Wake them and have them be here in the next hour or less."

It was time for her to cash on the unspoken debt the Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei owed her...

* * *

**Icebreaker _Brigit_**

**Antarctica**

**46 Hours Earlier...**

Weyland had access to a cavalcade of various instruments that could view any celestial body outside of his planet. At any given moment, he could simply fly to one of the many telescopes or observatories he owned, and gaze at any galaxy the superpowered lenses could reach.

He had often. He'd lose himself in the vast complexities of the universe, all that were both on display yet clandestine. In addition to technology, astrology had often been a beloved hobby of his, although he was more of a zealot in the latter. He liked the stars, planets, and whatever celestial bodies he could find, and the enigma of them intrigued him ever since boyhood. They offered no explanation for why they existed, they simply did—forcing him to fill in the meaning for their purpose beyond what humans already knew so far.

Andromeda was still his favorite out of all the galaxies he could observe. It was the first galaxy he ever viewed from a telescope with his father. It was a beautiful, clouded, and dark swirling mystery. It didn't need to garner for attention, whoring for it like bright supernovas—streaking in the telescopes view so blatantly. It was constant and surreptitious; only those willing to appreciate its simplicity were allowed a peak and revel in the wonders it held.

Andromeda was his confidant, something always waiting for him at night, and would always be there; allowing him to get lost in it when he needed something to distract him from his constant fast-paced thoughts. Quietness in a genius' mind was not a usual luxury he had. So, distraction in something he admired and thought beautiful, offered him reprieve when he desperately needed it.

The Xenomorph Queen snarled in pain from behind her electric cage, the holographic buzz from her semi-transparent wall causing the sound to go mute on his ears as she birthed another painful egg from her ovipositor...

And the CEO sucked in another breath through his teeth... it never ceased to amaze him the malignant beauty of her.

 _She_ was his new Andromeda.

Exotic, dark and as full of untold mystery as the galaxy she was named after.

She was the universe's reaper: predatory, unsympathetic, and as exquisitely feral as she was hauntingly resplendent.

He was enchanted by the deadly mystery of her. Peter wasn't sure how long he had stared at the Queen from the other side, the only evidence of the passing of time being the ache he felt in his knees. He must have been staring at her for hours. But he wasn't the only one. The scientists observed her with fear, the one at the hydraulic controls, displaying an audible gulp as he activated the metal grapple overhead to whir to life and open before descending into the cage.

The alien matriarch shrieked, its eyeless face following the slow movements of the mechanical arm that reached inside her cage to pluck out another egg; the entire retrieval process resembling an arcade claw game. However, she was incapable of stopping it and could only watch as they took her unhatched offspring from the cage.

Weyland would have to promote the scientist that had the hindsight to think of holographic chains, for there would have been no way for them to secure her by using simple metal ones. Besides the ovipositor, created from her own secretions and through a process he could only describe as her depositing placenta without it being detached from her, she was relatively immobile. All she could do was wail in protest and wave her barbed, skeletal-like limbs about.

His blue eyes traced over the yellow acidic ooze that dribbled over the chains around her bony neck, as if they passed through air, before puddling on top of the Trimonite floor. It had no effect on the alien metal; simply steaming before ceasing completely, and he could see why the headhunters preferred the metal so much. It was the only thing impervious to the acidic alien blood.

The Xenomorph's head fixed in his direction on the platform and he felt the corner of his lips tug slightly to the side as her own lips curled back into an indignant snarl; as if she was fully aware of the architect of her revival and current suffering. He found it quite insulting honestly. Weyland had rescued her from her icy purgatory and still she displayed contempt. The creature should have more gratitude. It was a little bit of a coincidence now that he thought about it, choosing to name her Andromeda, because he saw himself as her Perseus rescuing her from the clutches of Poseidon.

The Queen seemed to sense his discomfiture and he tilted his head to the side when he saw her give the tiniest of mocking nods in his direction; as if she knew and didn't care for his conniption. It paled in comparison to her own.

That was another interesting element about her: though an animal, there was an otherworldly intelligence about her. A devilish cunning. The limits of her savagery longed to be tested on them every time an egg was plucked from her cage. It went beyond a mother protecting her offspring—she took it as a personal offense. As if they were unworthy to even gaze upon her species, let alone do what they pleased. She craved their annihilation in the most grotesque way she could administer.

Weyland smiled.

He could admire such ego.

However, he couldn't conjure any elation over the fact that he was so dominant over such an imposing specimen.

Peter's eyes fixed over to the left of the cargo hold/laboratory of the icebreaker; watching as his overworked scientists and engineers mulled about trying to get the portal up and running again. His eyes narrowed suspiciously over every employee. He had thought that after Logan, he would have been done with Yutani's sabotage. Unfortunately, the timing of events made him reconsider.

The portal, the oval metal structure resembling something of a sophisticated Stargate except built with a mixture of Trimonite and other equally expensive and radioactive Earth elements, had unexpectedly stopped working…

He sucked his teeth, as if trying to remove a bitter taste in his mouth.

After the Xenomorph Queen had been de-thawed. They would not be able to distribute the eggs until it was repaired. Fixing it was their only option, since they were so cut off from the rest of the world. All they could do now was continue to collect her eggs; moving them to another storage unit until they were ready to be transported.

It wasn't a coincidence.

Peter didn't find anything on the security cameras that was of any note after he reviewed them personally, but he already knew who it was. There were still traitors around. Plotting, scheming against his goals. They could try all they liked, he would still get the eggs to Outworld no matter how many delays they tried to create.

It wasn't the delay that bothered him, it was Yutani. He didn't know if she wanted to expose him or take what was his. Peter didn't know her thoughts about the Xenomorphs and honestly, he thought her a bit selfish. Couldn't she make due with the Yautja and leave him be? They could each have their own alien species. But he knew both of them would never settle for half. Yutani could spin her own spider-web of schemes and send her drones to carry them out all she wanted. Yutani wasn't going to get his prize or halt his plans.

Weyland turned to the paid mercenaries on the other side of the cargo hold, checking over their weapons and gear and whispering amongst themselves.

Peter Weyland would be damned if anyone –especially his professional foe— took his Andromeda from him…

His blue eyes, as icy as the environment they sailed through, looked to the door that exited out of the cargo hold.

There was just one loose end he had to deal with...

Meanwhile, on the deck of the _Brigit_ , Colin O'Flanagan, an athletic fair-skinned young Irishman, drummed his fingers along the outside of his smartphone in his puffy red Antarctic jacket; beads of sweat rolling down the side of his neck. He didn't necessarily need the coat; it was merely for show; he could have fared fine with a wool sweater and equally warm hat in the biting arctic climate. His usually lively and expressive brown eyes narrowed at the passing icebergs as his chapped lips clung to the last remains of a dying cigarette. Occasionally, ash would fall from the end, catching his attention and pulling him from his buzzing thoughts.

It was the hired mercenary's smoke break, but he took no relaxation in it as he should have. His latest anxiety as of late was relentless, his black hair usually worn in a precise quiff, was now disheveled by the amount of unnecessary times he ran his hand through his hair standing by the railing of the ship. He had been a nervous wreck ever since he sabotaged the portal on Yutani's orders. Though, besides his untamed hair, overgrown stubble, the spy displayed complete indifference to the affairs taking place in the belly of the _Brigit_ to the other contract mercenaries and their employer.

His only other fellow imposter had been ripped apart before his eyes by the Xenomorph Queen, and now he was alone.

Colin let slip a mournful sigh from behind his cigarette…

Donna didn't deserve to go the way she had. Body parts torn; blood spilling, screaming while being eaten alive… What lie were they gonna tell her 5-year-old daughter of how her mother died?

O'Flanagan looked down and grimaced with guilt at his bruised knuckles, now scabbing over. He hadn't wanted to participate in interrogating Logan, but he had to keep up appearances. Logan knew that as well, holding no grudge in her eyes, but it didn't mean he felt any better about the part he played. He was supposed to be her support…but he had failed her. He should have done more…

Now, he was all that was left—left with the mantle of covert correspondence to Yutani and that Donna was much more adept at handling. He hated playing messenger under enemy lines; preferring to observe and report back once at base. He was a foot soldier and wasn't good at this note-passing spy shit. He didn't even know why Yutani and Stevens made the suggestion to have him come along.

The Irishman let out a scoff.

He knew why.

O'Flanagan was better at sabotage than being a carrier pigeon and Yutani wanted someone indiscreet in case things got too out of hand. Logan and himself hadn't had the full details of the operation, until they salvaged the Queen from the ocean. Then, Logan got on the horn, got caught, and he stalled until he had further orders; hoping for an extraction in addition to aiding the cavalry to send the Queen back to hell. It was why he was picked from the other OWLF members— better soldiers— to accompany Logan to Weyland's little ship of horrors. Yutani only agreed because of his unique talent for vandalism.

His aptitude for wreaking havoc without drawing suspicion to himself was what made him valuable to Yutani, because how he went about it was hard to detect if you completely disregarded what was possible within the limits of the physical world.

The merc fished out another cigarette from his opposite pocket, his hand around his phone removing itself to pull the butt from his lips and flick it over the side of the boat. He pressed his thumb to the outside of the new cigarette, the pad of his digit heating up, his flesh turning a scolding red, before he felt the cigarette ignite and cinder under his digit.

Colin placed the new lit drag to his lips, taking an inhale as his restlessness grew like unkempt flames.

Weyland, the man too obsessed with scientific reason, would never suspect something—or _someone_ —as outlandishly paranormal as a pyrokinetic amongst them.

It had been an easy thing to do—overheating the portal's circuitry— incinerating and superheating the wires so much they melted. All he needed was twenty minutes of uninterrupted concentration in the same room. It was in the knick of time as well. The exertion nearly knocked him out and made him go through an entire package of Kleenex for his bloody nose, but if he had delayed a second sooner, the eggs would have been through the portal by now. Weyland would never suspect anything of a supernatural reason why the equipment was sabotaged, only assessing that it was done by other more realistic means. Therefore, he wasn't suspected at all.

It was the main difference he had noticed about the two CEOs.

Yutani had more belief in the mystical world than Weyland did, and like Colin, his guess why the former did was because of her exposure to it. Although, he was sure Yutani's was less traumatizing than his experience with it was.

Colin rolled his eyes, the lit cigarette between two of his fingers for now, as his least favorite childhood memory played in his head— manipulated and plagiarized from an old rhyme and as always, sang from the voices of his fellow orphans of _Miss Carr's_ in his head…

_"Are you a witch/are you a faerie/ or are you the son of the late Brennan and Mary?"_

Colin lifted his hand, preparing to put the drag to his lips before he noticed his hand turned bright red— looking akin to a harsh sunburn. Quickly, he pinched the cigarette between his lips, before shoving his hands in his pockets, concealing the color from view in case somebody happened to walk by. The OWLF member breathed through his nose, his eyes shut tightly, as he settled on a controlled breathing rhythm…

_"Get a hold of yourself. Remember the breathing exercises that mother paid for…"_

After a moment, he felt his hands return to normal, and he settled, though he still thought contemptuously about his adoptive mother.

Colin knew that she was much older than she led on… he had his doubts she was even born in the 20th century or even in this realm. She knew he knew as well, though she would never admit to it. He guessed Outworld, but she would never confirm it— not even to him despite how many times he asked.

Both of them were special and he always assessed it as why Yutani took such fondness to him besides what he could contribute to her clandestine plots. Taking him all over the world to find someone that could help him channel his ability and control it. He had met a monk in his teenage years, who had spoken about another gifted Shaolin with the same ability by the name of Liu Kang, but was nowhere near his skill in pyromancy or martial arts. And he was dead. Still, his mother saw him as nothing but a tool— ever since he was a child.

That's all everybody ever saw him as. A matchstick to be used when needed. And though his mother conveyed a maternal, yet professional, demeanor towards him and her chosen OWLF team, he saw past her façade. It was the one thing both CEOs had in common: their desire for completing the objective and bulldozing over whoever and whatever got in the way; exploiting every tool that they thought expendable.

Usually the pyrokinetic soldier was asked to do more morally objectionable things with his talent under orders.

Explosives mostly, which was ironic considering he spent his time in the Army as an EOD. When he wasn't doing that, he was involved in torture and disposal... and melted flesh was still one of his least favorite smells. It was his least favorite task on top of the more aggravating one that was his bread and butter in the OWLF team.

He was Yautja bait almost nearly all the time. Wherever they went on hunts—the prey hunting the hunters— his naturally elevated temperature due to his gift almost always made his heat signature stand out amongst his normal teammates. He was a lantern, bringing in moths to the light, and almost all the time it nearly got him killed with the Yautja. But they knew the hunter's weaknesses and used them against them. They didn't kill the unarmed, but it didn't mean he still didn't get roughed up a bit. And even though he got the piss beat out of him by them, it didn't make him any less fascinated by them.

Back at the dam, where OWLF was stationed, he had formed an unlikely friendship with Rory McKenna, and had learned much about the Yautja through what Rory had found translating their technology. Despite being the decoy, almost getting killed every mission, he was still fascinated about them and Rory had told him as much as he could about them: from some of their language, alphabet, and customs. Learning more than what his team thought acceptable. They had called them the 'Freak Fan-Girls'; McKenna being on the spectrum and Colin's ability and the fact that they were friends making them targets. He honestly didn't give two shits about what his team thought. They were all annoying cunts.

So, serving as a spy on the icebreaker was a holiday in comparison. At least he didn't have to be running for his life or getting hazed by his fellow OWLF soldiers.

At least it would have been, if not for the alien queen in the ship.

When he saw her for the first time was when Colin finally understood why Yutani and Stevens had picked him to board the ship. The OWLF merc didn't even have to know what his boss's plan was—he had guessed it long ago—even before Stevens dolefully briefed him on what should occur if things went south. Yutani knew as well, and he had to admit, her goodbye hadn't been what he had expected.

_"If it is what I fear it is…"_

_"I know what to do, Ma'. It won't leave the ship."_

Colin could still see that same placating smile— the same one she had given him all his life growing up in her adoptive care.

_"It won't come to that. You have my word."_

Colin scoffed. If all her promises were as solid as gold, his pockets would be heavy with them, but they were scant.

The Irish orphan curled his lip up. His legally adoptive mother didn't even have the decency to tell him goodbye? She knew she was sending him to his funeral and yet she couldn't even look him in the eye to say it? There was a part of him that longed for the idea that he hoped he was wrong, and that she would see him again and what was happening on the icebreaker was nothing. However, after seeing the Xeno-Queen in the ship, the lack of communication he was finding, and finally Logan's unseen death, it looked like he would have to go through with Plan B.

He sucked long and hard on the cigarette, letting out a shaky breath.

The ship had to sink.

A fire in the engine room with a few well-placed bombs (spots already picked out from when he meandered around the ship) would do the trick.

Colin would kill everyone on the ship—himself included—to ensure the Xenomorph Queen and Weyland were taken care of.

He was… surprisingly ok with it, despite his trepidation.

Colin wasn't doing it for Yutani, to get back at Weyland, or to be a good soldier or to save another realm. He would do it on the sole fact that if the Queen ever got off of the ship, and back to Earth's shores, everything would die. He had found out that Weyland was planning to weaponize them after destroying the realms, and he couldn't give the CEO the chance. You could only contain something as feral as the Queen for so long…

So, he would be the insignificant martyr. It was him or no one else. He could live—and die— knowing that at least he was doing something noble.

It was why he was here…

The soldier took another inhale of his smoke, shaking his head lightly as his eyes fixed on the stars behind the tapestry of green and purple dancing overhead in the Antarctic sky; knowing it was the last time he would see them.

Didn't mean he was happy about it though...

The door leading to the inside of the ship opened, Colin heard it, but didn't turn to see who it was that came through as he pulled his phone from his pocket; feigning checking for text messages. He already knew the previous mission was fucked and wasn't going to get any messages from base. No word by now meant Plan B was a go…

"What's wrong?" he heard the voice of his employer chide as he came to casually stand next to him. "No messages from Mommy Yutani, yet?"

Colin blinked, the cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth as his lips parted in shock; the biting wind adding another layer of freezing paralyzing anxiety when his blood immediately ran cold at Weyland's statement.

The OWLF merc couldn't face the man, but caught the blonde-haired CEO turning his eyes in his direction to gauge his reaction and vainly soak in the fear that Colin no doubt had on his face.

To no surprise after the chilling sentence had been dropped, the mercenaries also hired on as protection for Weyland, pooled out of the door and came around the corners, effectively cutting off his escape routes.

Colin looked at them, all the burly mercs of different nationalities regarding him with raw mistrust and disgust as they cornered him and waited for Weyland's further instructions. The only thing the Irishman was livid about was with himself. What had he done wrong?

"Do you have an extra cigarette to spare?" Weyland questioned, interrupting his thoughts, as his hand went out. Colin would have considered it to be an urbane gesture, if not for the acidic glint from the CEO's eyes he gave him.

Colin sighed through his nose, his expression monotone, though he stomach squirmed like a bag full of snakes. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette to give to Weyland. As a habit, he pocketed his phone and pulled out a lighter; an antique silver zippo that didn't work with the Tree of Life engraved on the outside. He lit it, using his pyrokinetic ability to fake its function, before handing the drag over to Weyland.

O'Flanagan's eyes narrowed before he threw his own butt over the railing as the pompous CEO inhaled and regarded him like a malignant Moray Eel in a puffy blue Antarctic coat.

"Did you think I did not know all this time?" Weyland chastised him. "Did you and your _mommy_ really think something as important as Yutani's adopted kid, no matter how hard she tried to bury it, wouldn't come across my desk? I myself like Ireland, been there a few times on business. It's so green."

O'Flanagan chewed the inside of his cheek, cracking his pointer finger under his thumb, as his skin heated up slightly in anger at the man's subtle cutting remark.

"Would you like me to let you in on my little secret?" Weyland leaned in, whispering low to him while the OWLF kept his ground.

"Colonel Stevens has been double-dipping into both company pockets"— Weyland pointed a thumb at himself, gloating culpably— "But I pay him more. Why do you think nobody has texted you back to let you know they are coming to save you? Yutani may have created OWLF, but I have been calling the shots for the past few years. You're here cause I wanted you here."

Colin didn't say anything in response. What could he do? The confession floored him, and he was surprised that he was still standing upright instead of sinking to his knees. The revelation sent a wave of horror and revulsion crashing down on him. The fucking traitor—their boss, Stevens— was a grade-A bastard this entire time.

"I'm here as blackmail, then?" Yutani's adopted son pieced together. "So, she can't do anything to intervene while you go on and carry out your genocide?"

"Something like that," Weyland remarked, a fox-like grin spreading over his face before it frowned at a sudden thought. "Although, I was surprised you were able to accomplish any form of sabotage. Stevens mentioned you were quite competent, but I am still impressed. I still cannot figure out how you did it. Would you like to share before you head to the brig?"

He caught him, but he wasn't going to divulge a thing to him. From what he led on, Weyland didn't know what he really was (Stevens either not telling Weyland purposefully, or the man just not believing he was truly pyrokinetic) at the moment, it was the only ace up his sleeve. It seemed Stevens was rolling the dice, being on both payrolls, and letting fate decide what happened. Stevens, had no love of Outworld, but knew about his ability. It was 50/50, leaving it up to Colin. It was a game of chance, a way to appease both CEOs, and Colin had to keep it hidden— play along that the Weyland had the upper hand which he could do. The only aggravating thing was to listen to the man monologue about his brilliance and get off on the sound of his own voice.

"Well, since you ain't my boss anymore, then I can tell you to kindly fuck off and get to the point. Why am I still alive?" Colin interjected; his brown eyes hot at the man as he changed the subject. "I'd figure you jump at the chance to kill me."

Peter smirked at the man's abrasive retort before clarifying: "Technically I still am your boss because of Stevens, but I get the colorful idea. And to answer your question: it is because you're not as expendable as Donna was," Weyland explained nonchalantly, though Colin detected the slight annoyance in his tone; as if he wished he could throw him over the railing of the ship now. "The fact that you are her son is the only reason why you are still alive for now."

"For now," Colin parroted back, letting the man know that he understood that the last two words weren't an accidental slip of the tongue. The soldier bit his lip, sighing: "If you do manage to sleep like a babe after knowing you've killed millions, you're risking interrealm war on us all if you lose and they kill the Xenos you send. And you are gonna lose. You're fucking the planet you say you want to protect so much."

The corner of Weyland's mouth tugged to the side. "That's if there is anyone still alive in Outworld to wage war with us. Honestly, I don't know why Yutani is trying to stop me. This benefits Earth—apologies— _Earthrealm_ if we succeed. I do apologize, I keep forgetting to use the true moniker. Perhaps after all this is over, we can go back to what it should truly be called: Earth."

O'Flanagan laughed tauntingly, raising a dubious eyebrow. "She's gonna fuck you, ya' know?"

"Who? Your mother?" Weyland sneered.

The OWLF merc smirked darkly at him, nodding his head in the direction of the cargo hold. "Her royal fucking _highness_. I can't wait for her to get free so she can tear you a new asshole. Nobody deserves it more."

The CEO's demeanor changed, his eyes volatile yet the rest of him ironically remained even-keeled. "She's an _animal_. My pet. _My_ property."

"She's the Grim - Fucking - Reaper, and you know it. You can't control her," Colin disagreed. "So do your planet a favor and send her back to the bottom of the sea where she belongs."

"Ah, what a dutiful son and soldier you are," Weyland praised mockingly after a pause. "Still trying to carry out the mission. After the panel is fixed, I'll give you a front row seat to watch history unfold so you can tell mommy what happened once you get back home to the _Ol' Emerald Isle_."

Colin scowled, Weyland mocking his heritage by mimicking an Irish brogue when mentioning his homeland. The pyrokinetic watched the man take another long inhale at his drag, the ember on the end growing bright orange as he sucked…

The cigarette ignited in his hand like a tiny road flare, burning the outside of Weyland's hand, as he let out a surprised and pained yelp—throwing it as far away as he could away from him instantly. Colin wiped the small bit of blood that pooled out of his nostril with the back of his hand, his head feeling as if a hammer just struck him in the forehead.

The CEO glowered at him, the back of his hand now blistered… and Colin crowed smugly at how mixed the man was at him; he knew he had something to do with what just happened, and was livid, but still, the self-proclaimed cybernetics genius couldn't figure out how he did it. So, in retaliation, he finally motioned for the mercenaries to take him. The conversation now undoubtedly over.

"I'll be seeing ya all in Hell, but all you cunts are gonna _burn_ before you get there," Colin promised crossly before something hard hit him in the back of the head—

And then darkness...

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned on a bit of canon divergence, as evidence in my last chapter with my Predator throwing away Shinnok's Amulet. This one definitely is considered canon divergence. To be fair, I only had one line of dialogue from AVP:R to work with in regards to Ms. Yutani. A good and bad thing, cause it gave me luxury to fit her better into the world of MK. Also, in regards to the OC, I was also trying to fit him more into the MK world than the AVP one due to what occurs in the next chapter. Kombat Kids and Subs show up. They were gonna here, but this chapter was long enough. So see you (maybe) and them next chapter.


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